


The Winter Garden

by Callie4180



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Autumn, Beekeeping, Canon compliant (as far as that goes), Christmas, Comfort, Fandom Trumps Hate, Happy Ending, Holidays, Honey, M/M, Magical Realism, Post-Season/Series 04, Retirementlock, Rosie's cat, Serious illness (not John or Sherlock), Slow Burn, Sussex, Sweetness, or realistic magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-08-24 02:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16631030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: As Sherlock nears the end of his career, he's given the gift of a cottage in Sussex. The honey from the beehives out back is amazing.Almost...magical.





	1. Janine Drops By

**Author's Note:**

  * For [timewellspent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timewellspent/gifts).



> This fic has been written for the loveliest of lovelies, Justawaystogo/timewellspent (Holly). She was kind enough to bid on me in the Fandom Trumps Hate auction this year, but truth be told, I've been wanting to write something for her for a long time. I do hope you like this, dear one. 
> 
> As an extra gift for Holly, I requested that another dear heart, BluebellofBakerStreet, create a cover for this. You can see it [here,](https://bakerstmel.tumblr.com/post/180139153156) or follow the link below. Bluebell is a gift to all of us and a wonderful person besides, and I am forever grateful to know her and to be able, on far too rare occasions, to spend time with her. 
> 
> UPDATE: This fic is complete.
> 
> This is retirementlock, and so the characters are of course necessarily of an advanced age. There are some serious themes to this work, so please go to the end notes if you want a heads up before you start. You are also free to contact me at callie4180 at gmail or on Twitter at @callie4180 if you want more details. 
> 
> Note that happy ending tag, though.

Even after all this time, he still recognised the click of her heels on the stairs. He clicked off the hologram--a crime scene, well framed for once, though the tyre tracks could use more definition--and stood and buttoned his jacket, waiting only a few moments more for the pounding of a determined fist on the door. She never had been able to make a quiet entrance.

“Sherlock  _ Bloody _ Holmes!” came her voice, loud and full of mischief. “Get your arse out of that chair and open this door right now! Don’t you dare keep me waiting!”

He hid his smile and followed her orders. “Janine,” he said gravely, peering down at her grinning face. “The one that got away. What a rare and unexpected surprise.”

“That’s more like it.” She blew a kiss in the vague direction of his cheek as she pushed by him, kicking the door shut behind her. “You remember how I take it, I assume,” she said, plopping down at the table and waving at the kitchen. 

“Black like your heart, and sweet like your smile,” he said with a smirk and a bow, before walking into the kitchen and pulling down the tea tray. The kettle had just boiled, so four minutes later he was seated across from her, blowing on his own tea to cool it as he observed her closely. “It’s been far too long. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“First things first.” Janine took a sip from her cup and winced at the burn. “Go on, then,” she said, eyes dancing as she took another tentative sip. “I know you can’t help it.”

He put his cup to the side and steepled his fingers under his chin, studying her. She looked...good. The years had been kind to her. She had smile lines at the corners of her lips, which she had earned the honest way, with frequent and genuine smiles. A few silver hairs peeked through at her temples, which had the entirely unexpected effect of drawing attention to the dark sparkle of her eyes. She’d put on a bit of weight, which suited her, balancing her out, somehow. She waggled the ring finger of her left hand as he focused on the diamond ring and band she wore there, and met his smile with one of her own when he looked back up to her face. She was glowing, her skin fairly beaming with health and other lovely, less definable things. The word ‘joy’ came to mind, followed quickly by ‘contentment.’ The ring shone like it was brand new, recently cleaned and obviously cherished.

He smiled gently. “He’s good to you. I’m glad,” was all he said, and a slight blush tinted her cheeks.

“Took my time in finding him, but he was worth the wait. And you,” she said, gesturing around the flat. “You look almost exactly the same. In fact, nothing around here has changed. Well, almost nothing.” He followed her gaze to the picture that held pride of place on the mantelpiece, a framed photo of him with his arm around John Watson’s shoulders and Rosie Watson gleefully photobombing them in the background. Molly Hooper had taken the picture last year at the party celebrating Rosie’s acceptance to the University of Edinburgh. They all looked...happy. Beaming, in fact. “Never would have thought I’d see you settled down.”

“Oh, well,” Sherlock said, pulling at his collar. “It’s not--we’re not that way. You know that.”

“Do I?” Janine asked brightly, tilting her head. “Do I really?”

“He’s not...John doesn’t live here. I mean, he visits, and we go on cases, but, well. He’s still got his own place, out in the suburbs. Rosie left for uni a couple of months ago, but she left a lot of her belongings behind, and he’s still taking care of her cat, so…” Janine was watching him with one eyebrow cocked, and he had the distinct impression she was trying not to laugh. He sighed and gave up. “Janine, why are you here?”

“You used to be easier to spin up. I’m disappointed.” She pulled an envelope from her large handbag and handed it to him. “Brought you something,” she said coyly.

He took the packet cautiously. “What? Is it a case?”

“Nope. A gift. A  _ surprise.  _ Call it--an early Christmas present." She nodded toward the envelope. “Go on, open it.”

Sherlock slid his finger under the flap and drew out a stack of papers. His forehead creased in confusion. “It’s...it’s a deed.”

“Yup.” She took another sip of her tea. “Remember that cottage in Sussex Downs?”

“How could I forget?” He frowned ruefully, shaking his head as he flipped through the papers. “I still can’t walk into a pub without people asking me about ‘seven times a night in Baker Street.’”

“Aw, I gave you a reputation. You’re welcome.” She beamed at him before nodding toward the stack of papers. “Anyway. Figured you’d basically bought me the thing. Seemed only fair to share it.”

He held the papers out at arm’s length. “‘The Winter Garden,’” he read, as though he were presenting the house at court. 

“That’s the one. I like a house with a name, personally. Gives it character.”

He looked up at her, puzzled. “But you don’t want it anymore.”

She leaned back in her chair, a dreamy look in her eyes. “I’ve had some wonderful times there, I won’t lie. It really is lovely. Quiet and peaceful. But…” She shrugged. “Comes down to, I’m just too much of a city girl. Kev’s inherited a nice house in Dublin, and I’m ready for a bit more excitement, I can tell you. And Sussex is a bitch of a trip from Dublin. If we need to get away, I can just...” She looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You don’t trust me.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Strangely enough, I do. I just--” He motioned around the sitting room, awash as it was in its usual chaos. “I’m really quite settled here.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “You don’t have to move there, silly, at least not yet. Just keep it as a get away. A retreat, of sorts.” 

“Hmm.” He lifted a sceptical eyebrow. “I’m not sure I have the personality for a retreat.”

Janine grinned broadly. “Oh, I think you do. Try it, at least. I think you’ll find it quite rewarding. Almost...magical.”

“Magical,” he repeated with a scoff. “You know I don’t believe in magic.”

“Oh, Sherl,” she said, rolling her eyes. “The whole point of magic is that it doesn’t require belief to exist.”

“You know…” Sherlock tilted his head thoughtfully. “That was either very wise, or complete rubbish.”

“Now you know what it’s like for the rest of us.”  She picked up her purse and stood, looking down at him with kind eyes. “Take the cottage, Mr Holmes. You’ll be glad for it soon enough.”

He stared up at her for a long moment. “I...don’t know what to say.”

“Christ, I just gave you a house, you wanker. You say ‘thank you.’ Now show me out.”

He walked her to the door. “Thank you,” he whispered. Her kiss made contact with his cheek this time, and she gave him one last long, fond look before stepping out onto the landing.

He paused before closing the door. 

“Janine?”

She stopped on the stairway and looked over her shoulder.

“All those years ago, you said you were getting rid of the beehives.” He cleared his throat. “Did you?”

She gave him a flirty wink. “Go and see.”

\---


	2. To the Cottage

After a restless night and a caffeine-soaked morning, Sherlock found himself frowning down at a small, neatly-wrapped box that had been left at his door. He opened the package to find a set of keys and a note:

_ Yes, you idiot, I meant it. XO -J _

He stared down at the keyring where it sat heavy in his hand, growing warm under his touch. It seemed real enough, as did the papers that sat on his kitchen table and the teacup in the sink that still bore the marks of Janine’s distinctive berry-coloured lipstick. It would appear that he had, in fact, been gifted a cottage. 

A smile threatened at his lips.  _ You idiot, I meant it.  _ He’d never known Janine not to travel in a cloud of chaos, but even for her, this was extraordinary.

Well. Sherlock looked back over to the map of Sussex that was displayed on the screen above the sofa. If one had, in fact, been gifted a cottage, one might do very well to inspect it. He had nothing else on at the moment, anyway, so he decided to head for the Winter Garden on Monday morning next.

It would have never occurred to him not to ask John along, and Saturday supper (at John’s place this week, shepherd’s pie and bottles of ale) seemed a good time to do it. Sherlock waited until pudding and made the offer, fully expecting John to decline. He’d want to come, Sherlock knew, but he’d feel obligated to resist the first time; Sherlock had long ago grown used to John’s self-denial. And then, of course, there was the fact that the cottage had come courtesy of Janine. The mere mention of Janine’s name always made John’s face do a weird bit of contortion that Sherlock hadn’t ever been able to fully parse. There was anger there, and regret, and maybe something like jealousy, though that didn’t make any sense. In any case, as expected, the face made its appearance as John made his excuses--work and housekeeping and taking care of Rosie’s fragile old cat, Jeff, who was curled up on Sherlock’s lap at that very moment. Sherlock ran his fingers down the cat’s bony spine and nodded understandingly. Secretly, it was a relief; Janine had a puckish sense of humour, and there was no telling what he might be walking into. 

John saw him to the door, leaning heavily on his cane. “Difficult to imagine. You, willingly traveling to a cottage in the country that no one’s been murdered in.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well, don’t take all of the fun out of it, John. I haven’t even seen the place yet.”

John chuckled. “You’ll be taking the car, right?” he then asked, not quite meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “Only there’s been a lot of activity on the lines lately.”

Sherlock looked quickly at his face and then away, oddly touched. “Not in Sussex, surely.”

“Still.” John forced a smile. “You’ll be a right bastard if your train gets held up by a bombing.”

So the next day, after placing a goodbye kiss on Mrs Hudson’s powdered, smiling cheek and sending a quick text off to Mycroft, Sherlock threw some clothes into a duffel and pressed the button that summoned his autonomous car. He headed out as soon as the day had fully dawned. It was a beautiful autumn day, crisp and bright, and for once the London traffic flowed in his favour. The ride passed quickly, and he found himself tapping his fingers eagerly on the control panel as he reached the town limits. He slowed to appreciate a church with a promising graveyard, mentally noted the location of the local constabulary, and hastily stabbed the location button to flag the coordinates of a delicious-smelling bakery. The cottage was on the outskirts of the village, close enough for convenience and far enough away for quiet. He was surprised when the car slowed to turn off for the small private lane, hidden as it was by hedges, conifers, and brightly coloured maples.

He had to laugh when the car finally stopped on the brick driveway. It was, he thought, an absolute caricature of a cottage, the very definition of quaint. Made mostly of brick, with a broad front door at the end of a winding walkway of stone, it sat broad-based on the earth, stable and secure, ready to protect those who sought shelter inside. It was covered in long trails of ivy and grapevines, with a bright splash of late-blooming climbing roses right across the front, and even from the car Sherlock could smell the alluring mix of fragrance meant to welcome him to his lovely new home.

It was pretty, it was perfect, and he could not have cared less. He’d worry about the house later.

He jabbed at the car’s power button and flew out the door, not stopping to thumb-lock it behind him. There was a narrow pathway to the side of the house and he raced down it and around to the garden at the back of the house, where he stopped short, chest heaving, searching the broad expanse of lawn with wide eyes before breaking into a grin of pure delight.

_ Go and see. _ Oh, Janine. 

She’d kept the bees. 

Sherlock’s grandmother had kept hives on her estate in France, a tradition that had been passed down for generations. He’d spent a lovely summer with her when he was a child, racing between the hives and helping to harvest the honey. He’d come to understand, after the revelations of twenty years ago, that she’d been kept from knowing the truth about the dark force that was his sister, but even so she’d always seemed to be able to tell that he was in desperate need of tenderness. She had been a warm and thoughtful presence, a loving woman who would laugh at his chatter every day, and then comfort him through terrors too great to speak of at night. He could still summon her memory, the smell of her lavender hand cream mixed with the faint hint of cigarette smoke in her hair, the smooth texture of her cotton shift under her plush chenille bed jacket. She would rock him in her arms, humming tunelessly, for hours, and on the worst nights, when nothing else would soothe him, she’d lead him into the kitchen and make him a cup of tea with a generous spoonful of honey. Through all the bitterness of his childhood, the awkward, strained silences and dubious stares, he'd never lost his taste for that sweetness.

Now, he nearly tripped over his own feet, running in his eagerness. He found a well maintained beekeeping suit and gloves in the little garden shed on the edge of the property, and properly attired, set out to investigate the hives. He took his time. They were all thriving, he was relieved to conclude, free of disease and crosscomb, with healthy, productive queens at their cores and enough food stores to last the winter. The bees seemed more active than he might have expected this late in the season, but it was a warm, sunny day. He couldn’t blame them, he supposed, for taking one last turn around the garden.

Hours later, the cold of dusk and the burn of hunger finally drove him inside. He unpacked the boxes he’d brought along: a old-fashioned kettle, tea, a couple of second-choice mugs and unmatched spoons, a package of biscuits, a hunk of good cheese. John had forced a couple of apples on him as he’d left the night before, and Sherlock had thrown them into the food box at the last minute. He smiled now to see them, and added one to his plate. His dinner assembled, he settled at the rough-hewn kitchen table. He’d left the window open, letting in the fresh evening air, and all he could hear was the rustle of the curtains and the roosting chatter of the starlings. He sighed once, deeply, just to hear the sound of his own breath; it was unexpectedly satisfying.

Janine had left a basket holding three bottles of honey on the table, and Sherlock held one up to the light. It was beautiful, a deep, rich amber colour he’d never seen in a honey before, a shade lighter than maple syrup but still clear as crystal. It captured the light so cleanly that it seemed to take on its own subtle glow. He turned the container slowly in his hand, and found his mouth watering. 

Janine had written him yet another note, this one attached to the basket: 

_ Caveat edax. XO -J    _

Sherlock snorted. “There’s no way you didn’t get that off Google,” he murmured, as he twisted off the lid and dipped his finger into the jar.

The flavour exploded on his tongue: an early flare of caramel, quickly followed by vanilla, cinnamon, and  _ dear god, what was that, _ maybe nutmeg, and yes, definitely orange blossom, before ending with a faint suggestion of something tart, bright, and crisp that he couldn’t quite put a name to.

Sherlock blinked down at the jar in surprise. The light still twinkled in the depths of the jar, and he’d barely managed to think the words  _ yes, again _ before he’d dipped back into the jar, two fingers this time, and was moaning in pleasure at the taste. It reminded him of wine in its complexity, with a sweetness that both whetted and soothed his cravings in turn, and he was absolutely certain he had never in his life tasted anything so damn  _ good. _

With the next taste, he found himself briefly wondering if one could survive on honey alone, and then almost immediately imagined John standing before him, face creased in disappointment, aiming a pointed glare at his apple and cheese.

Sherlock sighed. He screwed the lid back on and set the jar aside with reluctance. If only John had come along, Sherlock thought petulantly, he could have tasted the honey and he would have  _ understood. _

After dinner, Sherlock made another cup of tea. He mixed a generous spoonful of the honey into it and was delighted to find that the honey worked there too, winding through the leaves, mixing with the aroma and tannins to create a wonderful solution that seemed almost…

_ Magical, _ he heard Janine say. He shook his head, smiling. Right at this moment, he’d be hard-pressed to argue.

He slept more peacefully that night than he had in years, dreaming of lavender and cigarettes, apples dripping with honey, and John Watson, of course, but from a happier time, relaxed and comfortable by Sherlock’s side.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Caveat edax_ can be roughly translated as "eater beware."
> 
> And I've decided that Google will survive as a linguistic term, even if the company itself fades away.


	3. John Comes and Goes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s Thanksgiving here in the U.S. No matter what country you’re in, reader friend, I’m thankful for you. <3
> 
> Note: There's some discussion of a character's serious illness in this chapter. It's sad. I'm sorry.
> 
> If you need more details before proceeding, you can email me at callie4180 at gmail or ping me on Twitter.

Sherlock decided to again broach the idea of a visit with John two days later, after he’d finished setting up the kitchen. His descriptions of the cottage’s charm, the comfortable downstairs guest room, the rich scents and cozy chairs of the bakery, the greens of the hills and the reds of the trees, the still-vivid pinks and purples of the garden, the gentle rhythm of the bees’ comings and goings, and of course the absolute, perfect quiet, finally worked. John gave in with his usual ill grace, literally throwing up his hands. “Fine. Tomorrow,” he said, and Sherlock had to pretend to reach for something off camera to hide his grin. “But not for long,” John added. “The kid next door can feed Jeff for a night or two, but that’s it.”

“Of course, John. Whatever you say. I’ll send the car,” Sherlock said, his voice calm, but his feet, safely off camera, tapping with delight. 

The next morning, he saw the car off before dawn, but it was well past lunch time when he finally heard the tyres coming back up the driveway. He barely stopped himself from racing to the door, forcing himself instead to count to a very quick three after John’s knock. He couldn’t help the genuine smile, though, or the happiness in his voice as he offered his welcome. John blinked up at him, bemused, and then nodded when Sherlock pointed toward the short downstairs hallway. 

John dropped his bag in the bedroom and wandered through the cottage, leaning on his cane and against the whitewashed walls in turn. He whistled softly when he reached the back door. “Wow,” he murmured, and slid the door open.

Sherlock followed him, holding his breath. 

“Wow,” John said again, looking out at the expanse of green lawn, the tall conifers, the rich colours of the trees and flowers, and the rolling hills just visible in the distance. He turned to Sherlock where he stood just outside the doorway. “I’m really going to have to change my opinion of Janine.”

Sherlock chuckled. “You like it,” he said, relieved.

“It’s stunning,” John answered, and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, tilting his face up toward the sun, and then looked over with a smile. “Go on, then,” he said, with the barest hint of teasing in his voice. “Let’s see these bees of yours.”

Sherlock grinned and turned back toward the house. “Tea first, I think,” he said over his shoulder. “You won’t believe the honey.”

\---

The next few days were incredibly--almost unbelievably--peaceful. Sherlock couldn’t remember another time he’d felt so content. The hours flowed easily. John read on his tablet or typed on his laptop, pausing often to look out at the hills and shake his head in wonder; Sherlock, for his part, puttered in the gardening shed or sat and stared at the bees. He felt a looseness in his joints he was quite sure he’d never experienced before, a grace and comfort in his body that was completely new. At night, after supper, the two of them settled in to read real books of paper and ink, each gravitating to the armchairs Sherlock had deliberately placed before the hearth in an echo of Baker Street. Sherlock stole glances at John between the pages of his novel, hiding his grin behind the cover. 

The kettle saw almost constant use. Sherlock made certain that John never wanted for a cup of tea, always laced, of course, with honey from the stores Janine had left behind. After being caught off guard for the third time, Sherlock finally created a new closet in his mind palace for the sounds John made every time he tasted it. With a faint blush on his cheeks, he set a lock on the door. It wouldn’t do to relive those memories in perceptive company.

But then, far too soon, John announced with no little reluctance that he had to head for home. He had a shift scheduled at the surgery, a pint scheduled with Lestrade, and an appointment for the cat scheduled at the vet’s. Sherlock briefly considered making a fuss, but then decided to gracefully step aside. The quicker these ridiculous tasks were completed, after all, the sooner John could return. He’d already decided to stay a while longer himself, though if pressed, he couldn’t have given a rational reason.

At the last minute, as John packed his bag, Sherlock packed up a jar of honey and a tray of baklava from the bakery for John to leave at Mrs Hudson’s door. She’d love it, Sherlock thought; she secretly loved sweet things as much as he did, and he knew she often used him as her excuse to have such things around. It was a pleasant conspiracy, and he was glad to play his part, even from a distance. 

John stopped and took one last breath of the fresh Sussex air before giving Sherlock a wide smile. He looked...different, somehow, from when he’d arrived. More relaxed, certainly, but there was something else...had he gotten some sun? Put on some weight? Sherlock wasn’t sure, but John definitely...well, there was no other word for it--there was a glow about him. A trick of the light, surely, Sherlock thought, but a lovely one. He followed John to the car and deliberately linked his hands behind his back, willing them to stay there. His chest always twinged when they parted, and he’d long noted that John hated when he rubbed, even unconsciously, at his scar. He'd gotten in the habit of adopting this stance, his own form of parade rest, to keep the impulse at bay.

John threw his cane into the waiting car and turned to face him. “I’m off, then. Um. thanks for…” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the cottage. “Try not to get stung, yeah?”

Sherlock shook his head gravely. “No promises, Doctor. It is for the bees to decide.”

John rolled his eyes, grinning as he slid easily into the operator’s seat. Sherlock followed the car down the brick driveway, waving as it made the turn toward the freeway. He was surprised to find his eyes growing moist; allergies, he supposed. Yes, that seemed most likely.

\---

Now, on his own again, Sherlock set out to stay busy. In the daytime, he worked the gardens, kept up the cottage, and studiously observed the bees. In the evenings, after eating a quick supper, he’d cruise beekeeping websites, perusing journals and textbooks, finding the answers to questions he hadn’t even thought to ask. As soon as his eyes would start burning with exhaustion, he would settle into his armchair, enjoying the quiet and watching the fire, his mind swirling with all he had seen and learned that day. If at times he found the quiet too much, the other pieces of furniture too empty, he did his best not to dwell on it. It was, as he’d said long ago, what it was. He screen-chatted with John almost daily, but John was a man who took his responsibilities seriously. He’d come back when he could, Sherlock was sure of it. In the meantime, Sherlock had his bees. It was fine.

One night, it rained, a show-off of a storm with thick clouds full of thunder and lightning and wind enough to break branches off the trees. The cottage was well off the main grid, so Sherlock wasn’t in the least surprised when the lights flickered a few times and finally clicked off. He wasn’t worried, either; the windows were closed tight, he had his fire, and he could just as easily open a bottle of whiskey to stay warm as put on the kettle. Back in London, John had worked the late shift, and was getting over a cold besides; he’d texted two hours ago, just as the clouds had been rolling in, to tell Sherlock he was going straight home to bed and not to bother to call. For once, Sherlock didn’t mind. The mood of the evening suited him, as it turned out, and he could use some time to think.

Sherlock absently rattled the ice left behind in the glass as he stared down at the envelope from the solicitor’s office. It had arrived only that morning, mixed in with the advertisements and catalogues of the normal post. The transfer of equity for the property had been registered, and the Winter Garden was, for all practical purposes, his. 

Janine had given him a cottage. Chalk hills, winterbournes, the restless sea and the open sky. Flowers. Storms. Bees. 

A retreat, she’d said. A place for him…

_ For them,  _ a quiet, hopeful voice interjected.

For them, then. For him  _ and _ John, if Sherlock could find a way to convince him. A place to take their ease. A place to rest. To...retire to, maybe. Someday.

A cottage that, against all expectations, he might one day think of as home.

Sherlock rattled his glass again, watching the fire dance in the reflections of the ice cubes.

The idea of retirement wasn’t new to him. The ever-increasing precision of holographic crime scene records had made Sherlock’s job much easier to do from his flat, or really, from anywhere. Holograms weren’t perfect--he had only his eyes to work with, after all, and his senses of touch and smell were as keen as his vision, but he didn’t have to change from his pajamas, and secretly, he relished the challenge. Even better, at Lestrade’s suggestion Sherlock had spent quite a bit of time over the past year or so offering seminars to the officers of Scotland Yard. It had been excruciating at first; what came naturally to him (the integration of clues and probability, the deep, almost instinctive connections within his mind palace, his arcane knowledge of London) was not easily reduced to learnable modules. Still, with John on hand to translate, he’d managed to find a way to make it all work. The primary result had been a gratifying reduction in the overall level of idiocy among the investigative corps. Things weren’t perfect, by any means, but the integrity of crime scenes was more readily respected, and suspects were (at last) being asked the right questions. A secondary result, no less welcome, had been fewer panicked telephone calls that ended up with Sherlock Holmes, the gracefully aging consulting detective, dragged out of his warm bed in the dark of the night to dig through a rubbish skip or stare blearily at the poorly focused projection of an alleyway. Sherlock had hopes, real ones, that all these changes would be lasting, and just in the nick of time, too: Lestrade’s own retirement party was already being planned, and though he’d never admit it, Sherlock couldn’t imagine Scotland Yard without him.

Mycroft wasn’t feeding them cases anymore, either, and hadn’t for just over a year. John, of all people, had been the first to notice, and his innocent question (‘where’s your brother, then?”) after several weeks of silence had immediately made the hair on Sherlock’s arms stand on end. Sherlock had learned to trust his intuition, so while he’d given John a flippant reply, he’d excused himself an hour later to dial Mycroft's assistant’s private line. Anthea, still Mycroft’s fiercest protector, had apparently been expecting the call, and her careful non-answer, along with a stern demand for his brother’s privacy, had confirmed his worst fears. Mycroft hadn’t retired, exactly, but he wasn’t going to be working for a while. 

_ If ever again,  _ Sherlock thought, and his throat grew tight. Mycroft had been given a bleak prognosis, though of course he was making a good show of it.

After their parents had passed on, they’d always kept in distant touch, but after getting the news, Sherlock had found himself texting Mycroft almost every day. Rude jokes, distant family gossip, a cryptic deduction left open ended--he’d send anything to get a response. He’d kept it light, almost flippant, doing all he could to keep up their act. After all their years of conflict, he’d figured, the nicest thing he could do was to keep pretending not to care.

Sometimes Mycroft would go silent for a week or two, and Sherlock would stare at his dark mobile for hours every night. 

As had long been their habit, the brothers exchanged presents through the mail at Christmas. Sherlock had taken a risk and forgone his usual gift of wine, splurging instead on a first edition set of the works of Sir William Blackstone, a favourite of Mycroft’s since his school days. Mycroft, of course, in keeping with the passive-aggressive tradition that now spanned decades, had sent Sherlock a tie. They agreed not to meet for holiday drinks, both pretending to suffer from over-busy schedules.

Six months had passed since he’d gotten the news and spring was well underway when Sherlock’s phone finally beeped with the text he’d been dreading. Anthea always had been concise and to the point.

_ Ask your brother to lunch for his birthday. He’s ready. _

Mycroft hadn’t even pretended to be surprised by the call, and a reservation had been set. John had tagged along at the last minute, his welcome always assured after so many years. Mycroft had been alert and bright eyed, if pale and gaunt. His feet, shod like a commoner's in slip-on oxfords of all things, had shuffled as he walked, and his hands, when he reached for his mineral water, had quivered. His speech had been a little slower than normal, more labored, his usually razor-sharp edges not as keen. He’d been game, though, having his ample leftovers boxed up for take away, making jokes about his own dwindling waistline and the liberating feeling of being thin at last. Sherlock hadn’t taken the bait, and a few minutes later had slid his own piece of cake onto Mycroft’s plate without a word. Mycroft had barely managed two bites of it. Sherlock had seen the truth in John’s eyes as the black car pulled away, knowing that John knew to leave everything unsaid. That was, after all, their specialty.

Months had passed, counted day by day, and Mycroft had of course fought on, but Sherlock, ever observant, had noted a shift in their dynamic. The brothers still texted, but the messages these days were brief, the words kinder than any they’d said before. 

Now, as the storm fairly shook the cottage walls, Sherlock looked out at the night, listened to the roar of the wind, and sent up a faint hope that his brother was resting well, preparing for the lonely journey that would be starting far too soon. Sherlock would be there to see him off when the time came. It was all there was left that he could do.

Sherlock sighed. Every man had his sorrows, but some were heavier than others.

John, for his part, had his own set of worries. Rosie was off on her own at uni now, making friends and having adventures and keeping in polite but infrequent touch with her father. Born of two highly intelligent parents, she had recognized at an early age that she wasn’t being told her mother’s entire story. “There’s no point,” John had said firmly when Sherlock had summoned up the courage to ask, and Sherlock had known from the set of his jaw that the matter was settled. Childhood secrets, as Sherlock had learned from personal experience, led to silence, tension, and mistrust; he had to trust John’s apparent belief that these things would be better than the outright rage that complete knowledge might bring. Sherlock took comfort in the fact that Rosie, despite a literal lifetime of extensive first hand exposure, had chosen to study forensics. It allowed him to keep his own hand in, and the lines of communication, though crackly, stayed open.

As for John and Sherlock’s troubled and beaten relationship, it had somehow, impossibly, weathered the decades. They’d mumbled and floundered and sideways-glanced their way over the years to a sort of mutual dependence, intimate and close in their own unspoken way. They spent most evenings together now, either at Baker Street or at John’s house or occasionally downstairs with the sprightly but geriatric Mrs Hudson. Sherlock’s favourite nights were when they had nothing better to do than relax at 221B, seated in their arm chairs with tablets and reading glasses at hand, or side by side on the sofa watching telly with a respectable few inches between them. They didn’t talk about much beyond cases and the day-to-day, but they talked, and it was better than nothing. 

John’s shoulder was tight all the time now, and it was arthritis in his knees and not the betrayal of his own mind that kept his cane close at hand. Ever the excellent doctor, John had accepted the ultrasound, the scoping, the high-res holographic imaging; ever the abysmal patient, he’d resisted the implants that would set him right. Sherlock had finally come to understand it as a kind of penance, though the harm John thought he’d caused had never been apparent. Afghanistan? Mary? Rosie? Sherlock himself (surely not)? He couldn’t tell, and though it went entirely against every instinct in his body, he’d left the question unasked. There was no point to starting a fight that no one could win.

Sherlock, for his part, had some occasional shortness of breath, and frequently felt a sharp twinge in his chest. He’d been worked up for it all years before, without John’s knowledge, and there was nothing to be done. Adhesions, nerve damage, muscle atrophy: the typical complications of an aging body that had once been shot in the heart. 

Sherlock slowly set his glass on the side table. He felt that pain now, a peculiar ache that floated throughout his body before settling under his small silver scar. He thought of the last time he watched John leave Baker Street, leaning on his cane and headed to the bland box he insisted on calling home. He thought of John sick and alone in his house right now, staring at the world’s most boring wallpaper, a box of tissues for his running nose by his bedside and the mail slot nearly rusted shut, the faded front door locked tight and no one to bring him tea. The pain in his own chest, Sherlock reflected, honest again in the dark, probably wasn’t entirely physical.

He almost had to laugh. He, of all people, was getting sentimental in his old age, and the whiskey certainly wasn’t helping. He banked the fire with care and started to make his way to the staircase, stumbling a little, when his eye was caught by the glow of the bottle of honey sitting out on the table. Even in the darkness of the unlit kitchen, he could see it clearly, shimmering faintly in the light from the fading embers of the fire. Suddenly, he was gripped with a powerful craving for a taste of it. His lips were just the merest bit numb from his drinking, but the taste of the honey was as clear and delicious as it had been the first time he’d tried it. The burst at the end seemed even brighter than before, and it faded slowly this time, leaving his palate almost tingling.

He went to bed with that sweetness on his lips, feeling a hint of dread at the hangover that he anticipated come sunrise, but he woke the next morning to clear skies and a head free of pain. It was a nice surprise, that last bit. He’d never handled his liquor well.


	4. Jeff Goes to the Vet

A few days later, it was Sherlock’s turn to call. John answered on his wrist unit, a rare occurrence, and Sherlock was just about to tease him about it when he caught a good look at John’s face. There were more lines than normal at the corners of his eyes, and dark rings beneath them. His skin was almost grey with exhaustion. John held his arm still for a couple of seconds, letting him look, smiling tiredly. “Hey, Sherlock. Was going to call you in a few.”

Sherlock enlarged the window on his screen and peered more closely. John’s image jumped with his motion: walking, then, and outside somewhere, judging from the glimpses of blue sky over his shoulder. Sherlock clicked the volume up and listened closely; there, behind John’s breathing and the normal traffic sounds of midday in a London neighborhood, the faint sound of a cricket bat and the cheers of a small crowd. Near the Lord’s Cricket Ground, then, on the edge of Regents Park. On the way to Baker Street, but going the long way round, something John tended to do when he needed to clear his head. “What is it, John? What’s wrong?” 

“Give us a minute.” Sherlock watched him slow and look around, changing course for a few metres and then coming to a halt. John was shaking his head and frowning as he sat on a park bench. Sherlock heard the click of John’s cane coming to rest against the metal bench, and the automatic sigh as he stretched out his bad leg. Then it was quiet, and Sherlock understood. John had moved off the pathway, to a part of the park with no one nearby; they couldn’t be overheard. John gave a single nod, glancing down at the screen and then back around. “Just headed over to see Mrs Hudson, actually.”

Sherlock looked over at the call record on his screen, but there was no listing for a call from Mrs Hudson’s flat. Even out of town, he was programmed to be her first call if anything went wrong. “She’s not ill,” he said tentatively, bracing himself just in case.

“No. At least I hope not. No, I just...I just needed a friendly face, I suppose.”

Sherlock felt a pang of guilt at the distance between them. “John,” he said again, concern in his voice. “Tell me. What’s happened.”

“You’ll think it’s stupid, but…” John rubbed down his face with his free hand. “It’s the bloody cat.”

“The cat,” Sherlock echoed. “You mean Jeff.” 

“Jeff, right. I just left him at the vet clinic. They’re running some tests, but...it’s not looking too good.”

Sherlock rubbed absently along his thigh, remembering the warmth of the little body in his lap when he’d last seen him, just a couple of weeks ago. Jeff had lost weight, Sherlock remembered, and his coat had been a little dull, but otherwise, he’d seemed well enough, comfortable and content. “How not good?”

“Not good.”

“Shit.” Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “You’ll have to tell Rosie.”

“Yeah.” John sighed heavily. “Course I will.”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock shook his head sadly. “Poor Jeff.”

John blinked down into his watch. “You actually seem upset.”

“I like the little bugger, John, you know that. I always have. Rosie said I was his godfather, remember?”

“Christ, I’d almost forgotten.” John started to chuckle. “I still can’t believe you talked my daughter into naming her cat after a serial killer. Jesus.”

“It was sentimental, John. Our first case.”

“Serial. Killer.”

Sherlock sniffed haughtily, secretly relieved to see John’s mood shift. “It was a logical choice. Cats are nature’s perfect killers, after all. Even Jeff, when he’s bothered enough to get out of bed, is lethal, and I mean that as the highest of praise. If you’re going to waste your resources on having a pet, you might as well have one with homicidal tendencies.”

John shook his head, grinning widely. “You do know she told all her friends where the name came from, right? Just after you told her the story. And they told their parents and the teachers and Christ, what a mess that was. I had to throw the most fluffy, princessy, lace-covered pink birthday party the Commonwealth has ever known to try to convince everyone we were normal, do you remember?”

“I remember thinking it was an overreaction, yes.” Sherlock himself was trying not to smile now, but failing. “I mean, to be fair, Jeff Hope wasn’t much of a serial killer, now, was he. He had, what, four confirmed kills? Basically an amateur. Your cat had more of a body count in the first year you had him.”

“Yeah, mouse bodies.”

“On a proportionate basis of prey to predator, still quite impressive. And anyway, I didn’t tell her the full story until she was old enough to handle it.”

“She was  _ ten.” _

“She was mature for her age.”

John started chuckling again, and this time Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh with him. John finally let the laughter fade, shook his head and sighed. “This is going to be terrible, isn’t it.”

“Giving bad news always is, you know that. But I do believe you’re making more out of it than you should. You think she’ll blame you, but that’s insane. Rosie is a rational being. Life is finite, and these things happen at random. She knows that.  _ You _ know that.”

“I do, but, well.” Sherlock briefly lost sight of John’s face as John stood and started walking again. “It’s not that simple, Sherlock. This is more about feeling than reason. To her, he’s her baby, and I…”

“You’re her father,” Sherlock finished for him, putting all the weight of twenty years into the sentence. John was right; things were tense enough between father and daughter. This couldn’t help but complicate matters. “Again, I’m sorry.”

John sighed. “It’s all right. They’re doing an aspirate now, and running some blood tests. The results should be back tomorrow, and we can make whatever decisions we have to then. They say there’s some things we can try if...well.”

Sherlock nodded, feeling his throat tighten. “That’s something, I suppose.”

“Yeah. Anyway, I figured I was close enough to come by and check on Mrs H, and here we are.” Sherlock heard the jingling of keys, followed by the creak of the old wooden door opening. He had to smile. 

As the population of London had grown over the years, the city had had no option but to expand upward. City planners, somehow both remarkably forward thinking and architecturally conservative, had struggled to maintain the character of the old buildings while allowing for adequate office and living space. The results were often rather like Baker Street today: Mrs Hudson’s old building, lovingly preserved, with a modern glass highrise wrapped around and above it. Usually, the security needs of the new building demanded at least some accommodation from those in the “historicals,” but Baker Street had proven the exception. 

When the initial plans had come through, Sherlock had worried that he’d might have to seek an actual office somewhere, a place where those who needed to believe they could remain anonymous could still come to seek his expertise. Mrs Hudson, however, had scoffed and said she’d have none of it. Watching from the wings, Sherlock had come to realise that no force could withstand Mrs Hudson’s particular mix of charm and will. She had stood her ground, supported no doubt by the valuation on her property and the silent but effective support of a minor official in the British government. 

Thus, 221 Baker Street and its jingling keys, with no metal detectors, no fingerprint registration, and no visitors’ logs. Sherlock wasn’t naive; he knew that at least three separate digital CCTV surveillance systems boasting the best in facial recognition were aimed at the front door. Still, iris scanners, at the least, were the norm in most buildings now and had become highly affordable, but he suspected Mrs Hudson would resist them until her last breath. 

Which...wouldn’t be anytime soon, judging from the loud and energetic singing floating down the staircase. Sherlock leaned in more closely, trying to see, as John looked down at his watch, bemused. “Mrs Hudson?” John called loudly. “Are you up there?”

“Oop!” The singing cut off abruptly, and Mrs Hudson’s now entirely white head of hair popped out from the sitting room doorway. “Up here, John!”

“She’s upstairs?” Sherlock asked, moving his head from side to side as though it would improve his view. “How the hell--” 

“Good question,” John muttered, shuffling up the stairs. “I’ll tap you over.”

Sherlock’s view switched smoothly to a wide angle from the camera behind the sofa as John stepped through the door. Mrs Hudson was moving about the sitting room, earbuds still in place, brandishing a feather duster with remarkable vigour. 

As Sherlock watched, amazed, John walked over and tapped her on the shoulder. Mrs Hudson smiled widely and removed one of the earbuds. “Those stairs, Mrs H,” John said, holding out his hand for the feather duster. “What were you thinking? You could have hurt yourself.” He dropped the feather duster on the coffee table as he walked to the kitchen. Sherlock could hear the ping of the electronic kettle and the rattle of ceramic from the cabinets. 

“I was thinking that if I didn’t get up here soon, my own ceiling might cave in under all the dirt.” She paused and looked around. “It’s not as bad as I expected, though. Oh, hello, Sherlock.” She waggled her fingers at his image on the large screen. “You’ve been keeping things up.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively and turning away to hide his blush. He  _ had _ been trying to keep things tidier, actually. His data showed John stayed an average of seventeen minutes longer when the lounge had been recently straightened. The hoovering data was less conclusive.

“I’m sure your help is appreciated, Mrs Hudson,” John called, as he leaned around the corner to give Sherlock a pointed look through the screen. “Let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll help you back downstairs.”

“Thanks, love, but honestly, the hip hasn’t been bothering me as much lately. It’s a welcome change, I’ll tell you.” She perched on the armrest of Sherlock’s chair. “Managed the shops on my own yesterday, and haven’t needed a soother in a week. Not that I haven’t...well. Anyway.”

“Still, I’d much rather you not overdo it, if you don’t mind,” John said, as he walked back into the room balancing two mugs of tea. “A good housekeeper is hard to find, after all.”

“Oh, you.” Mrs Hudson sipped her tea and nodded appreciatively. She looked from John to Sherlock and back again. “Haven’t seen either of you since your weekend in Sussex. Looks like you boys got some sun.”

“Well, I spent quite a bit of time outside reading, you know. And Sherlock couldn’t quit fussing over the hives, so--”

“Oh, right, the bees!” Mrs Hudson leaned forward eagerly. “Sherlock, love, any chance of more of that honey? It was ever so good. Mrs Turner and I opened it to have with our tea last week, and it was all I could do to keep her from finishing off the jar. I used a bit of it to make scones. Shared them with that nice doorman up above.”

Sherlock frowned. “Miguel is half your age, Mrs Hudson.”

“I did say the hip was feeling better, Sherlock,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. Her face was aglow with mischief and fondness; for a moment, Sherlock could see the dazzling young woman she must have been. “But the honey?”

“I’ll send some up next week.”

“Oh, lovely. Thank you, dear. Now, when are you coming back? Will you be home for Christmas?”

John lifted one eyebrow, silently echoing the question, and for a moment, Sherlock wished he was back at Baker Street already, drinking John’s tea and feeling Mrs Hudson’s thin, dry hand pat his cheek. But then he lifted his gaze over the monitor and camera to look out at the plants and flowers of the garden. The sun was shining brightly today, and the vivid pinks, reds, and greens seemed almost outrageous. As he stared, pondering Mrs Hudson’s question, he felt...the click.

He frowned and tilted his head in concentration. There--there it was again, that feeling that was almost a sound. There was...something. Something he was missing, something that wanted to make itself known. He felt his intuition pulse, a brief wave of energy without a focus. It was a familiar feeling, though it had been a while since he'd had it. There was  _ something _ just outside the reach of his senses that he needed to figure out.

“Soon, Mrs Hudson,” he murmured. “I’ll call you later, John.”

He hit the off button without looking, and then sat and stared out the back door until the sun went down.

\---

He hadn’t played in weeks.

He’d had a distraction, a new hobby of the best kind; the bees, yes, but also the investigation of a new village, the creation of a new home. He’d been (he hated to admit it, but there was no other word for it) nesting, and it had taken up all his energy. 

But now. It was late, but he was restless. There was something he needed to know, something new, something vital, and his conscious mind was getting in the way.

So he tightened and rosined his bow, pulled out his violin, and played.

The sound was subtly different, he noted. The change in humidity, maybe, or the shape of the room. He knew he was due to replace his strings, and probably to have the bridge checked again while he was at it. It had cracked last year after a particularly vigorous playing session with Eurus, and he’d ended up having to replace it. 

He stopped to re-tune his A string, turning the peg just the merest bit. There, that was better. He smiled in satisfaction, and picked up where he left off. 

He’d reached for Brahms tonight, the Violin Sonata No. 3 in D minor. He wanted the distraction of a melody, and the melancholy suited the hour.

It always took a few minutes for him to find the rhythm, not of the music so much as of his body, how he stood and moved. He felt the music start to course through him, bubbling up to flow through his vessels and tissues and finally, beautifully, out through his fingertips. He closed his eyes to concentrate, and  _ played. _

Brahms gave way to Mozart, and then Bach, and then Biber (which he’d chosen to learn just because of the name, the Mystery Sonatas,  _ really) _ . It was well past midnight when he finally put violin down and flexed his fingers, only slowly becoming aware how long he’d been playing. He hadn’t had any kind of intuitive breakthrough, but that was all right. He knew from long experience that these things took time.

He fixed himself one last cup of tea before bed, sweetening it (of course) with a liberal spoonful of honey, and drifted off to sleep with music and mystery in his head.

\---


	5. A Day Outside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m delighted to be posting on a day wherein Justawaystogo/Timewellspent (my dear Holly) got very good news about a truly remarkable accomplishment. It’s an honor to share a profession with this most accomplished and caring of women. Congratulations, Doctor.
> 
> Also, thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos. I'm so glad you're enjoying this. <3

Sherlock woke up with the sun in his eyes. 

It was another lovely day, clear and bright, with just enough of a breeze to rustle the leaves of the trees outside his bedroom window. He’d left his window cracked the night before, just a little, and now he took a deep breath; he could smell the humus of autumn and the tang of grass, a faint hint of the roses and honeysuckle that wound around his fence, and--another breath--yes, underneath it all a taste of the sea that shimmered just over the rise. Suddenly, uncharacteristically, he couldn’t stand being inside another minute.

He threw on some clothes, slipped into his trainers, and after a moment’s consideration, headed in the direction of what passed for town. 

He hadn’t walked for the pleasure of it in years. He’d covered hundreds of miles in London, of course, often driven to the pavement by a combination of dense city traffic and his own impatient nature, but he’d not actually  _ strolled _ in, well, ever, once he thought about it. He realised now that he’d been rather missing out. It was...nice. There was so much to see, so much data: soil composition, greenery, footprints and tyre tracks. On foot, he could feel the heartbeat of this place, slower and steadier than London, perhaps, but no less vital. He actually caught himself smiling at times. A couple of neighbors hailed him and waved; a truck slowed on the highway, and he stood straight to let the driver get a good look at him. He knew there’d been some gossip about him, some curiosity about his arrival and intentions, but he decided he wouldn’t allow it to bother him. Not today, when the sun was shining brightly and he felt so bloody good.

With a large part of his consciousness occupied with surface observations and deductions, the rest of his mind was free to puzzle over the click of intuition he’d felt just days earlier. He’d felt it before, a few times over the years, and had come to understand that it was always worth his attention. His subconscious had gotten out ahead of him, had processed data he hadn’t collected and reached conclusions he hadn’t been seeking; now it was just waiting for the right time to make the findings known. He knew it wouldn’t be long now. His dreams these past few nights had been vivid and rapidfire, scene after scene piling up until the lines started to blend between them. Mrs Hudson, smiling and happy, running down Baker Street with a kite; Janine in a wedding gown, bright eyed and ageless, tossing him her bouquet; Sherlock himself on the moon, playing golf in his dressing gown, his breath coming easily; John in a tuxedo and top hat, his cane a glossy blackwood instead of the usual workaday aluminium, executing a perfect turn and holding out a beckoning hand. Each morning, he’d returned to consciousness slowly, feeling the truth he was waiting for just beneath the surface but not yet quite ready to emerge. It would have frustrated him no end if he’d allowed it, but he’d learned over time that things worth having just could not be rushed. So he waited and pondered, kept his hands and feet busy, and trusted that with time, the secret he apparently already knew would make itself known. 

He reached the outskirts of the village proper in good time and headed directly for the bakery. They had apple tarts today, and hazelnut coffee, and he savoured a second serving of each before nodding to the proprietor and heading for home.

He put his meditations aside and set a brisker pace on the way back, eager now to take advantage of the beautiful weather in his own garden. He’d been planning to attack the vines in the side yard, overgrown and in need of trimming as they were, and this seemed like the day to do it. The muscles of his thighs and calves grew warm with the exertion, and he grinned, pleased with his efforts. He was home before noon. He paused on the porch, stopping for a moment to catch his breath, though for once he didn’t feel like he needed it. 

Wait. That was-- _ wait. _ He took another deep breath, and was gratified to realise that his chest, for the first time in recent memory, didn’t hurt. He stopped to take a quick inventory, and found that actually, amazingly,  _ nothing hurt. _

Sherlock grinned. If he wasn’t careful, this country living would make a new man of him. Those vines would be in perfect shape by nightfall.

\---

Almost December, and there were still flowers everywhere he looked. He hadn’t realised the cottage’s name was meant to be so literal.

Most of the deciduous trees had surrendered their leaves by now, leaving yellow litter in the corners of the yard as they prepared for the quiet sleep of winter. He would have expected that the change would have made the landscape less vibrant, had he thought about it. Instead, the bare branches brought what was left of the garden’s colours into stark and defiant relief. The greens of the conifers glowed dark and complex against the bright sky, providing a backdrop to the brilliant reds and pinks and purples of the flowers that still bloomed everywhere he looked. Daisies bloomed all over, standing tall to bathe their broad yellow faces in the winter sunlight. Blood-coloured roses trailed over the fence and around the gardening shed, scattering their petals across the lawn like fleeing criminals dropping evidence behind them, while thick skeins of star jasmine wrapped around and through the tree branches, reaching toward the beds of neatly trimmed hedges as if trying to lure them closer. Small bushes of comfrey, lavender, and daphne held reeds of tiny blooms to the sky, like delicate antennae. And everywhere he looked, the bees,  _ his bees, _ hopped giddily from flower to flower as though it was the first of May. He could only imagine what the place would look like once spring came. It would be riotous, no doubt, loud with birdsong and splashed with butterflies. It would be indecent in its opulence. It would be stunning.

He plucked a crimson rose from a nearby vine with fingers tipped with sap and streaked with evergreen. As he stood staring down at it, a single bee orbited his body and then swooped in to investigate the blossom along with him. Sherlock held his breath as the bee landed on the rose, brushing its body lightly across the pollen-laden filaments before again taking flight, heading directly toward the hives.

And once again, as watched after it, he heard and felt and (he would have sworn)  _ saw _ the click, like the lightning and thunder of a distant storm.

\---

“Of course I want to come back, Sherlock, and you’re right, I’ve got the leave, It’s just--” John ran a hand through his hair as he let out a frustrated sigh. “I just can’t right now. All right? I promised Rosie.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “Ah. You told her, then.”

“Yeah, told her how he’d been doing and everything the vet said. It didn’t go so well, to tell you the truth.” John rubbed at his eyes, and Sherlock could almost feel his exhausted sorrow through the screen. “She’d never forgive me if I left him alone right now, or even if I left him with the neighbors. He’s...well. Chemo wasn’t an option, it turns out. He’s probably not got long, poor bugger.”

Sherlock blinked. If that was the case, the answer seemed obvious. “So bring him along.”

“Bring him along,” John repeated doubtfully.

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock waved in the direction of the back door. “Let him enjoy the sun and skulk around the garden. Chase some fat Sussex mice. Frolic in the snow, once it starts. We’ll set him up a box on the hearth at night, and he can sleep by the fire. We’ll be sure he wants for nothing. He’ll love it. We’ll keep a close eye on him, and you’ll be able to stay for as long as you want.”

John stared into his webcam for a long minute, and then started to shake his head slowly in disbelief, a faint smile playing at his lips. “I just--I never can figure out what to expect with you, you know that?”

Sherlock blinked, confused. “I...don’t know what to say to that, John. The invitation is sincere.”

John’s smile lingered as he rubbed his chin, and Sherlock found himself holding his breath in anticipation. “Yeah, all right,” he said finally. “If Rosie says it’s okay. I’ll text her in the morning. Who knows, she might like the idea of a...I don’t know, hospice. I’ll let you know what she says. Might not stay long, but…I’ll let you know by lunch tomorrow, all right?”

Sherlock nodded.  _ Tonight would be better, _ he thought, glancing over at the empty armchairs, but he figured he’d take what he could get. He signed off and headed to the shed to look for a box. It would be dark soon, and the evening air was growing cool. It was, as John would say, excellent sleeping weather; maybe he’d turn in early. He could imagine the dreams already gathering, making stories from the secrets hiding in his brain. If he was lucky, tonight would be the night when the veils would drop, and everything would become clear.

\---


	6. Jeff Moves In

John walked in the following Monday morning with long scratches down each of his forearms and a cat carrier in hand. He met Sherlock’s wide-eyed look of innocent concern with a fearsome glare as he placed the carrier none too gently on the coffee table. Muttering, he wandered over to the kitchen and started rummaging under the sink.

Jeff, nearly frantic, caught sight of Sherlock through the metal bars and began yowling loudly.

“Over an hour of that,” John said as he straightened, brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide in hand. “Had to wrestle the great bloody bastard into the box and then listen to him scream about it for over an hour. He may be dying, but he’s not going without a fight.”

Sherlock smirked. “All right if I let him out?” 

John was blotting at his wounds with a paper towel, but he pulled it away long enough to wave one hand dismissively in their direction. “Go ahead, release the kraken. It’s your funeral.”

Sherlock flipped open the lock and pulled the door open slowly. Jeff blinked once before stretching a single delicate paw outside the door and patting gingerly on the table’s surface. “Go on, then, you’re a free man,” Sherlock murmured, meeting the paw with a single gentle finger of his own.

It was less than a minute before Jeff was curled up on Sherlock’s lap, purring loudly. John just shook his head. “I hate you both,” he said, a smile threatening at his lips.

\---

Jeff eventually wandered off to explore the cottage, and Sherlock spent the rest of the morning staring out at the back garden. He was, though he hated to have to admit it, rather tired. His subconscious was stubbornly refusing to give up its secrets, but the dreams had only grown more vivid and insistent with each passing night. Frustrated, almost angry now, he reverted to his mind palace to search for something, anything, that would help him to bring the mystery to light. He was vaguely aware that John popped out a couple of times with tea and biscuits, but the sun was directly overhead before he stirred and stretched.

He caught a hint of movement from the corner of his eye and turned to look. Jeff, whiskers twitching, was peeking through the small gap John had left in the sliding screen door on his last trip through. Sherlock reached over to push the door open another couple of inches. “Come on, then,” he said, with a nod toward the garden. Jeff gave a quick chirp and walked through, tail and head held high, stopping for a quick, grateful brush against Sherlock’s leg before walking boldly over to the edge of the patio. Sherlock smiled as he watched him. He always had admired the cat’s confidence. 

Sherlock had been there on Jeff’s adoption day, observing closely as Rosie chose him at the rescue centre. John had been hesitant to bring a cat into the house, muttering under his breath about shredded furniture and fur all over the carpets, but Rosie’s persistent requests and unbridled enthusiasm had finally won him over. After careful deliberation, she’d picked the scruffy, skinny black cat over the shinier, fatter moggies John had been subtly promoting. “I just like him,” she’d said, quite matter of fact, as he’d rubbed his face on the little finger she was poking into the cage. “I’ll take good care of him, and that will make him pretty. You’ll see.” John and Sherlock had both been helpless in the face of such resolve.

John had suggested several names on the walk home (Charlie, Max, Fluffy), all of which both Sherlock and Rosie had rejected out of hand. Sherlock had suggested Greg, thinking there would be no better way to piss Lestrade off (and for years still to come at that), but John had shot him a look and given a definitive no. Then Rosie, young, clever Rosie, had asked him, “Who else do you know from work, Sherlock?” and John had groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Jeff had, in fact, become “pretty.” He'd grown into a sleek black panther that Sherlock had always found fascinating. He seemed long for a cat, tall, with bright yellow eyes, a whip for a tail, and a single upper fang that would peek out at odd times and make him look like rather ridiculous. That fang had worked, though, as had all the other teeth, and while Jeff couldn’t have cared less about avian prey, the suburban mouse and rat population definitely had felt the impact of his appearance. He'd been one of nature’s great killing machines, and Sherlock always had respected a master. Rosie, of course, had loved the cat, had fussed over him, had doted on him, and he'd seemed to worship her in turn. The relationship had withstood the test of time, lasting a dozen years, and it was only after Rosie had elicited John’s most solemn promise to look after him that she’d been willing to leave for uni. “Goodbye, beautiful boy,” she’d whispered wistfully, running her finger along his cheek, just before leaving to catch her train to Edinburgh.

He wasn’t beautiful anymore, Sherlock thought with regret, as he watched the cat weave through the grass. The decline had been a rapid one. Jeff was weak now, and once again too thin, his coat dull and flaking. Still, though, his eyes were bright, and he stretched in the sun with evident pleasure. A late season butterfly made an appearance, dancing brightly from flower to flower, and Jeff sat and watched the insect’s progress with great interest. He didn’t bother to follow it, apparently content to let it escape over the fence and out of sight. Instead, he slowly worked his way around the garden, brushing against some of the plants and sniffing at others, stopping at one point to nibble delicately at a single leaf. His rounds completed, he stopped at Sherlock’s side and looked pointedly up at the table, where Sherlock’s cup and saucer sat empty next to the milk pitcher and a dish of honey. “Really?” Sherlock asked with mild surprise; he’d never known Jeff to be interested in any kind of dairy treat. But he splashed a bit of the milk into his saucer, and then, impulsively, added two drops of honey. “Do drink up, kind sir,” he said, placing the dish in front of the cat with a flourish, and after a careful sniff, Jeff lapped up every last drop.

He took a few moments to clean his face and then slipped back through the doorway. Sherlock turned to watch him through the window as he headed toward John’s bedroom.“Oh, hello, Jeff,” Sherlock heard John say. “Fancy a kip with the old man, do you?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined the cat settling next to John on top of the soft, warm quilt, cuddling up close and starting to purr. It was unseemly to envy a cat, no doubt, but he couldn’t help but think that at the moment, Jeff was the luckiest bastard alive.

\---

Three days later, Sherlock once again found himself up early, watching the sun rise. The dreams had been particularly insistent the night before, with the same cast of characters--Janine, Mrs Hudson, and of course John--strangely loud and near wild, weaving in and out of each other’s narratives without any warning. He had awakened quite suddenly, tense and with his heart racing, and for a moment he’d thought the deduction was about to reveal itself. He’d  _ felt _ it sitting there, somehow both in his chest and just behind his eyes, almost ready to emerge, and he’d held his breath, waiting for it to slip through and become his. 

And then, it...hadn’t. The dream had turned in on itself and faded, its details erased, and he’d been left with only vague impressions and an over-full urinary bladder.

But now, with his heart rate back to normal, he couldn’t regret the early hour. It was a beautiful morning, chilly but clear, and the bees were already out and about in the garden when the door creaked open behind him. 

“Good morning,” he said without looking back. 

John hummed behind him. “Sherlock, I’m going to ask you a question,” he said, sounding quite serious, “and I want you to be honest.”

John stepped around to stand next to him, and Sherlock glanced up at his face. John was wearing a tight expression, the expression he always wore right before Sherlock got in a lot of trouble. It had been a long time since Sherlock had seen that expression, and he hadn’t missed it. He swallowed. “All right.”

“Good.” John nodded. “You made dinner last night.”

“Yes…” Sherlock frowned. “I do most of the cooking here, John.”

“That’s my point.”

Sherlock was confused. “Was something wrong with dinner? Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine, just...I have to ask.” John took a deep breath. “Have you been experimenting on me?” he said in a rush.

Sherlock reared back in surprise. “What? No. I would never.” 

John paused, lifting a sceptical eyebrow. 

“I would  _ never,” _ Sherlock insisted. “Not anymore. Not ever again. Why?”

“Sorry,” John sighed, sinking into the chair next to him. “Sorry. I just...this doesn’t make any sense.”

_ “What _ doesn’t make sense?” 

“I just feel...really good. I just realised it this morning. My knee doesn’t hurt at all. Or my shoulder.”

“Really?” Sherlock blinked. “But that’s…”

“Yeah.” John nodded. “There’s no reason for it, at least not that I can figure. I’ve taken a couple of ibuprofen here and there, and I’ve kept up with the exercises, but that’s it. I don’t understand.” 

Sherlock glanced back toward John’s bedroom. “Well, you  _ have _ been sleeping a lot.”

“Yeah, maybe a little more than normal, but still. It just seems odd. More than odd.” John rubbed at his forehead for a few seconds, and then dropped his hand and shrugged, a smile coming to his lips. “I’ve got to say, though, this is as good as I’ve felt in months. Maybe years, if I’m honest.” He spread his hands wide. “Don’t even need the cane.”

Sherlock hesitantly mirrored his smile. “I’m glad, John.”

“It’s just...weird. Good, but weird. Country living, I guess. I should prescribe more of it.” John shook himself. “Anyway. Breakfast? I made tea and I was going to toast some of that fresh bread from the bakery. Do you want any?”

Sherlock nodded. “I think there was another jar of honey in the pantry.”

“Oh yeah, I found that already. Pretty sure I’ve eaten my weight in honey this week.” John smiled at him again, and this time, Sherlock’s breath caught. John’s hair, silver and fine, shone in the fresh sunlight, and his eyes, still the deepest blue Sherlock had ever seen, were almost twinkling. He looked impossibly young in that moment, healthy and vibrant.

Sherlock shook himself. “Right, then. Toast and tea. Thank you, John.” John went back into the house, whistling, as Sherlock stared out at the garden, unseeing, willing his heart rate back to normal for the second time that day. John always looked good to him, beautiful, in fact (Sherlock could admit that, if only to himself) but now, today, John looked...radiant. He was glowing.

He was  _ glowing. _

_ Click. _ There it was again, that moment of intuition, his brain’s silent version of a snap.  _ Stay with it,  _ Sherlock thought, closing his eyes in concentration.

John Watson was comfortable, completely at ease, so pain-free _he didn’t need his cane._ John’s knees had long been battlegrounds of inflammation; he’d been leaning on that cane again nearly full time for a decade. He hurt all the time. To see him moving easily was lovely, it was wonderful, but it didn’t make any sense. To see him _glowing_ was surreal.

Unbidden, Mrs Hudson came to mind. Not the elderly near-invalid they’d been caring for and worrying over for the past few years, but the Mrs Hudson of a few days ago, happy, independent, able to climb the stairs and navigate the shops. Mrs Hudson, whose hip wasn’t bothering her, her fond smile coming easily, perching on the side of his chair, teasing and preening and... _ glowing. _

“Looks like you boys got some sun,” she’d said, looking between them, smiling warmly.

Sherlock took a deep breath, steeling himself, and looked down at his hands. The sun was a little higher now, the light a little brighter, but even so, his skin seemed more (and he couldn’t believe he was thinking this word) radiant than it should have. He ran the fingers of one hand up his arm, his eyes following the trail of his touch. It felt as it always did, dry and cool, but he couldn’t deny that there was a subtle sheen there. He held one hand up and stared closely. His skin  _ was _ glowing. 

He’d walked for miles just a few days ago,  _ miles, _ and his breath had come easily. He’d felt strong and vital. His bullet scar hadn’t even twinged. And then he’d ripped out vines in the side yard for hours, stretching and reaching and pulling, without a sore muscle to show for any of it afterward. In fact, he’d felt better than he had in years, maybe even in decades. He’d felt amazing. And he was glowing.

_ He _ was glowing.  _ They _ were glowing. They all felt wonderful, and they were  _ glowing. _

From the backyard of the Mind Palace, he heard a faint buzzing. There was a harmony to it, a complexity that he couldn’t ignore. He closed his eyes and the sound grew louder. It was a rich, textured sound, alluring and fascinating, but in his dazed state, it took him a moment to draw the connection.

Bees. Hives. Honey.

The  _ honey. _

“Holy fucking hell,” he whispered.

“Excuse me?” John’s voice, amused and warm, came from behind him. Sherlock looked up at him, startled. “It’s just tea, Sherlock. Hardly worth that kind of acknowledgement.”

Sherlock nodded and waved a distracted hand of thanks as John set the tea down on the table. It  _ had  _ to be the honey, Sherlock thought. Sherlock and John had both spent time at the cottage, but Mrs Hudson had not; the three of them hadn’t shared a meal in ages. He closed his eyes and tried to remember every single thing he’d ever known about bees and honey. Glucose, fructose. The essence of pollen. Apian social structure. The distribution of plant life in Sussex, England, the world...

There was no excuse for having missed this, but he'd have to make time for self-recrimination later. Right now, he needed to design an experiment. No, experiments, plural. Many, many experiments. Immediately. Urgently. 

John was whistling in the kitchen, a happy sound. Sherlock turned to watch him through the window, and John caught his eye and winked.  _ Winked. _

John Watson had  _ winked _ at him. He had to understand this,  _ now. _

He had a call to make.

\---


	7. Sherlock Makes a Call

“Ah, Christ, but it’s early.” Janine’s chuckle came deep and throaty over the line. “Knew you’d be calling, sooner or later. What gave it away, then?”

Sherlock growled. “Turn on your video feed, you coward.”

The screen flared to life. “Not much to see here, Sherl,” she said, fluffing at her already wild hair. “Barely out of bed myself. So.” She took a sip from a steaming mug. “Tell me.”

“John’s knee has stopped hurting,” he answered quickly. “He doesn’t need his cane anymore. Mrs Hudson is climbing stairs and taking trips to the shops. And I--” He started to reach toward the bullet scar automatically, but frowned and let his hand drop.

Janine followed the motion with knowing eyes, and nodded slowly. He’d told her the story years ago, or at least the key parts of it, with John’s frowning permission. “You’ve certainly got the look. You’ve noticed it, right?”

“The glow? Yes.” He looked at the screen more closely. It was obvious, now that he knew what he was looking for. “I see you still have it.”

Janine snorted. “I’m not an idiot, am I. I stockpiled for two years before we moved. Honey doesn’t spoil, you know. ”

Sherlock glowered. “I know, and you’re stalling. Start talking.”

“Is John there?”

“He’s out for a few minutes. Took the car to the village.”

“Oh, right. Strudel day at the bakery.” She spread her hands. “I’m really not sure what to say. You got it figured out more quickly than I did, of course. I just knew I loved the feeling of the place. I’d go up sore and tired after a long week of work, and within a day or two, I’d be feeling all kinds of better. You know? Wasn’t anything too serious at first. Thought it was the rest and fresh air. Then a few years ago, the husband had a car accident, messed up his back pretty badly, and then…”

“It didn’t hurt,” Sherlock finished for her.

“Well, it did at first, of course, in hospital. It was bloody awful, poor bloke. But then when we went home, we opened one of the jars of honey to go with our tea and a couple of days later, it just...stopped. It’s not perfect, you’ve probably realised that already. It doesn’t heal the injury, you know, it just takes the pain away.”

“Any idea how it started?”

Janine shook her head. “None. I asked around the village, but no one knew who’d even built the place. It’s old, I know that. The woman I bought it from had just inherited it from her parents, and they’d lived there almost fifty years. Now she was a piece of work. Only cared about the selling price and the closing date, the great cow. We came across a box of old photos when we were moving in, and she told us to just put it all out with the rubbish.”

“Hmm. And did you?”

She shrugged hopelessly. “Not a lot of storage space round there, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Damn,” Sherlock muttered. “That could have been valuable information. And you don’t know who owned it before?”

“Nope,” Janine said, lifting her coffee cup for another sip. “I know Kev went to the library and tried to look the records up once, but the courthouse had a fire back in the day and the archives don’t go back much before the eighties. No computers then, you know. Even the tax records were lost.” She leaned closer to the camera and winked. “It’s a  _ mystery. _ You like those, right?”

Sherlock frowned. “It’s impossible,” he murmured. “There is nothing about this that makes any sense at all. I need data, damn it.” 

“Well, you’re screwed there, love,” Janine said with a rueful smile. “Once I realised that something was happening, I had the honey analysed at UCL, by a bloke in the chemistry department. Friend of my cousin. Convinced him to do it as a class project. He asked why we wanted him to look, but I didn’t bother trying to explain. He ran some tests, said it was perfectly normal honey. Nothing special about it at all.”

Sherlock hummed, thoughtful. “Which tests did he run? I wonder if he--”

“Look in the drawer in the desk upstairs,” she interrupted. “There’s a copy of the report there, but I’m telling you. He was pretty thorough. His professor was apparently quite an arsehole about each experiment being just so. Made him do everything twice _.” _

“Maybe…” It was fully daybreak now, and out the back window, Sherlock could see the morning sun suffusing the hives. “Maybe it’s the hives themselves, then. They’re quite robust.”

“Wondered the same thing,” Janine said. “You can poke around them if you want, but you can’t move them. The bees won’t have it. Early on, before we knew, we didn’t want the bother. I was going to give them to a bloke I know in London, who wanted to do that whole rooftop beekeeping thing. It was the trend then, you know. Talked to the local beekeeper association, followed all the recommendations.  _ Finally  _ got the bloody things on the truck, but the bees swarmed before we got out of the driveway. Tried again a couple of years later, but the same thing happened. It was like we were hitting some kind of wall. We finally gave up. It’s going to sound silly, but...I think they know it’s home.”

“That  _ does _ sound silly,” Sherlock said, lifting an eyebrow.

“Eh, sod off,” Janine said good naturedly. “You try it and get back to me.”

He waved one dismissive hand. “Could be the plants, I suppose. Or one particular plant.”

Janine nodded agreement. “The plants flower year round, I’m sure you’ve noticed. Even when there’s snow. Not as much as in spring, but they keep going. And it’s all of them, too, every bloody shrub. No question how the cottage got its name.”

“Could be the weather.”

“Yeah, I thought of that. Weather’s weather, though. Kind of hard to test.”

“The magnetic fields at this latitude…”

“Or all of those things together.”

Sherlock rubbed one hand across his face. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Look. I get that you want to understand it, Sherl, I do. And at some point you’ll think of distilling the medicine out of it, or of mass production--” Janine held up a hand at Sherlock’s wordless noise of protest. “Not for money, I know, but to--well, help people. We felt that way, too. You’ve got this...amazing thing, and you want to share it. And I have to tell you, we tried it, and none of it, and I mean none of it, worked. New hives, more bees, different flowers...nothing. I spent  _ years  _ in that bloody bee suit, and got absolutely nowhere.”

“Then you weren’t trying the right things, damn it!” Sherlock fairly vibrated with frustration. “It’s chemical. It’s  _ medicinal. _ There has to be something there to find. It can’t just be  _ magic.” _

“Whatever you say, boss.” Sherlock had the sense she was laughing at him, and he felt the beginnings of a blush. She was infuriating. 

“You are infuriating.”

“Oh, like I’ve never heard that before. Listen. You, John, Mrs Hudson. No pain at all?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “None that I know of. I haven't felt any, anyway. Why?"

“Something you should know, then. I’m not sure why, but...it doesn’t work the same way on everyone, or at the same speed. I mean, I’ve given jars of honey to friends who felt great a day later, and I’ve given it to people it made barely any difference on at all. A friend of mine had a shoulder that was all messed up, could barely use her arm at all. After the honey, she had the use of it but it still ached when it rained.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. That could be...receptors, or something. Building up a tolerance.”

“I suppose.” She gave him a knowing smile. “Do John’s joints still ache when it rains?”

Sherlock huffed. That was answer enough, it seemed.

“Right.” Janine pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Noticed something else, too, when I was there. You have to already have the pain when you first taste the honey. It only works on what’s already there. Break an arm there at the cottage and you’ll be on your own.” She paused. “Except for hangovers. It always seems to help those, lord bless. Lucky, that.”

Sherlock stared at her. Janine was that rare person who always managed to surprise him, but even so...“How are you this observant?” he demanded. 

“Knew a bloke once, didn’t miss much. Inspiring fellow, if a bit of an arse.” She leaned back in her chair and smiled. “This is nice, you know. Being friends. You, treating me like an equal. It’s...nice.”

Sherlock made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve always been friends.”

She shook her head, chuckling. “No, we haven’t. Not even close. Hell, it took me years to get to where I could even say your name without a curse word in front of it. Not hating you? That’s much more recent.”

Sherlock’s head shot up and his eyes grew wide. “You never hated me,” he said, hating the tiny hint of doubt he could hear in the words.

Janine must have heard it too, because her eyes softened. “Didn’t I?”

He tapped on the touchpad to zoom in on her face and looked at her closely. “Was it...was it the honey, then, that made things better? Does it do  _ that?” _

“Bloody hell, does everything have to be magic? Some of us are just capable of forgiveness, for Christ’s sake. Seriously, Sherl. Relax. You’re overthinking.”

"I will have you know, there is no such thing as overthinking." He frowned and looked away. “This is insane,” he grumbled. “It’s just a mystery. A  _ case. _ I solve them all the time.”

She shifted forward again, intently staring into the camera. “No, Mr Holmes. You’ve got it all wrong. This is magic, and you have to  _ let it be.” _ Her expression took on a hint of something that looked very like kindness. “Not your area, I know.”

He drew in a deep breath. “You are a distinctly unhelpful individual.”

“I suppose.” She shrugged. “Gave you a cottage, though, didn’t I, and a shit ton of magic bees.”

He sighed deeply. “Janine, I don’t know what to do about all this. I barely know what to think.”

She shook her head. He heard the car pulling in, the clomp of John’s shoes on the driveway, and apparently Janine heard it, too. She reached for the off switch, but paused. “Well, go have a cup of tea with John, for starters. And don’t forget to add plenty of honey.” She blew him a kiss, and the screen went dark.

\---

The next night found Sherlock at the simple wooden kitchen table, lingering over a second glass of wine. He and John had managed to finish off an entire pot of vegetable stew between them, along with a delicious salad they’d assembled fresh from the stands at the local market and a perfectly baked baguette from the bakery. Sherlock had thrown together a honey vinaigrette to dress the salad, and the sweetness of the dressing had perfectly balanced the savoury flavours of the rest of the meal. Sherlock had lived long enough to know the satisfaction of simple pleasures, and between the fullness of his belly and the fuzziness of the wine, not to mention a view of John Watson stretched out comfortably on the sofa with a book, Sherlock felt content in a way he rarely was.

At the same time, he was aggravated  _ as hell. _ He was no closer to unraveling the mystery of the honey than he’d been the day before; in fact, he was beginning to wonder if he was imagining the entire thing. There was no room in his science for what, despite his protestations, really did  look suspiciously like “magic.”

Two notebooks lay on the table in front of him: his beekeeping journal, already creased and well worn, containing every observation he’d made since his first day at the cottage, and a standard sketch pad, turned to a fresh page. He’d just finished drawing the chemical structures of sucrose and fructose and was staring down at them, tapping his pencil and frowning in thought, when Jeff came tearing through the room, in close, fevered pursuit of some kind of moth. 

John lowered his book and looked over his glasses, watching as the cat skidded around the corner of the cabinet, down the hallway and out of sight. “Jesus. I haven’t seen that kind of energy out of him in...well, years, actually.”

Sherlock had only looked up for a moment, following the cat’s path, before turning back to the sketch pad. “Oh?” he asked absently. He was thinking about the local water. All the chalk in the  area had to have some effect on the pH, didn’t it, but then again they got quite a lot of rain here, and rainwater wouldn’t--

“Yeah. His appetite’s increased, too. Ate two tins of food today, and I won’t be surprised if he asks for a third before bedtime. Ah, well,” John said, shaking his head. “Fresh air, and all that rot. It will make new men of us all.”

“I suppose.” The garden, Sherlock thought, reaching for his phone. He’d been taking pictures of plants, both the ones in the yard and from the neighborhood at large. Bees, he knew, could have a significant range. He flipped through his photos. Comfrey, allium, lupin, hyssop: all plants thought to have medicinal qualities, within an easy flight from the hives. Maybe there was some synergistic effect between the different pollens. If he could get specimens of them all, he could--

John rose to sitting and stretched. “Well. I’m going to make some tea, I think, and then call it a night. Want some?”

“I’ll get it.” How many days of sunlight did they get here, anyway? Sherlock moved over to the countertop, and started fussing with the tea things, still deep in thought. It had been warm lately, but still, on average, they seemed to--

He was looking at a weather map on his tablet in one hand and holding the milk carton in the other when Jeff, his moth nemesis apparently vanquished, emerged from the hallway and seated himself expectantly at Sherlock’s feet. Sherlock blinked down at him, feeling his usual twinge of fondness but with half his mind still occupied with trade winds and annual rainfall. “Oh, hello, then, Jeff. Good hunting, was it?” Jeff gave a little chirp as Sherlock reached for his dish, and then sniffed eagerly at the saucer of milk that Sherlock placed on the floor. “Just the way you like it, sir, with two drops of...

Oh.  _ Oh.  _

Sherlock been giving Jeff milk with honey every day for four or five days now. The cat had seemed to love it, and Sherlock hadn’t seen the harm in a little treat. But now...no wonder Jeff had been so active and playful; the honey was working on him, too.  _ The effects aren’t species specific,  _ Sherlock’s brain supplied.  _ Affected receptors are conserved. Consumption classification might amplify the impact.  _ He was just starting to disappear through the Mind Palace gates, headed for the stables where he kept animal information, when he heard John rustle on the sofa behind him.

John. Right. Sherlock blinked back down at Jeff, who was attacking his treat with relish. After their discussion, and all things considered, it wouldn’t do for John to decide that Sherlock was experimenting on  _ anyone _ ever again. Especially, above all, on Rosie’s cat. He steeled his face to a neutral expression as he heard John rise to his feet.

John wandered into the kitchen a moment later and picked up his cup. He looked from the cat to Sherlock and then back again. Together, the two men watched the cat lick the plate clean. Finally, John shook his head and gave Sherlock a gentle smile. “You’re such a pushover,” he said, and, lifting his mug in thanks, walked back over to the sofa.

Sherlock breathed out a little sigh of relief.

Jeff sat back and cleaned his face, as was his habit, and then, with his tail aloft, stalked over to his box on the hearth.

John settled back onto the sofa with his cup of tea. He was still sitting there over an hour later, watching the cat sleep with a thoughtful expression on his face, when Sherlock finally decided it was time to call it a night.


	8. A Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to say I'm sorry. And remember that the fic is NOT marked MCD. Promises were made and will be kept.

The next morning, Sherlock’s notebooks were still spread all over the table. Sherlock sipped his tea and stared down, unseeing, at the sketches and notes. 

He’d meant to gather up his papers the night before (John preferred a tidy living space, after all, and Sherlock had the data to prove it) and had even started to do so, was actively closing up the journals he’d consulted, when John pushed up from the sofa. “That’s me finished, I think,” he’d said, as he stood to his full height and started to stretch. Sherlock had looked up just in time to see John reaching his arms toward the ceiling, reaching high with ease like he hadn’t done in years. Just as John had reached his limit, he’d groaned loudly, almost obscenely with satisfaction, and Sherlock hadn’t been able to look away when the hem of John’s jumper lifted a couple of inches above the waistband of his jeans. A bare strip of skin had appeared there, smooth and gold in the firelight, and Sherlock had felt a hot flash of want that left him motionless and smouldering on the kitchen stool. His hands had reflexively clenched into fists, white-knuckled with the effort at restraint.

It wasn’t that the feeling of lust was a new one; Sherlock felt sexual desire for John on a regular basis, and had done so for years. It was a simple fact of his life, and he’d gotten quite used to it. Sherlock would feel it coming on, see the situation shaping itself in front of him, and would distract or threaten himself accordingly. He’d feel the want--there was nothing he could do about  _ that-- _ but he’d never, never let it show.

This, though, had come out of nowhere, apparently gathering unnoticed under the surface like the pressure of a geyser while he’d been distracted with diagrams and photographs, and then flaring, all steam and heat, with no warning whatsoever. That little strip of John’s skin had been enough to shut his mind down completely. He wasn’t sure he could remember his own name. He certainly had no idea what comfrey or hyssop were or what they did, and there was absolutely no reason he’d care as long as John was reaching to the ceiling like that. No man had ever stretched so loudly or for so long, Sherlock was sure of it, and it was both absolute hell and utter perfection. 

It had ended, of course, mere seconds or hours later, but then the  _ truly  _ remarkable thing had happened. John had picked up his mug and brought it into the kitchen. Sherlock, still blazing, hadn’t dared to move or say a word, but his hearing had followed John’s movement, triangulating his walk to the counter, the quick rinse of the cup, the careful placement into the dishwasher. “Off to bed, then,” John had said, as he folded the kitchen towel and dropped it with a soft plop onto the counter. “Don’t stay up too late, all right?” And then, as though it was any other night, he’d headed off to his bedroom, passing closely behind Sherlock as he’d made his way to the guest room.

And as he’d passed, he’d paused and run his hand through Sherlock’s hair. He’d r _ un his hand through Sherlock’s hair, _ starting at the nape and ending at his crown, squeezing his fingers into the mostly still-dark curls and letting the edges of his fingernails scrape ever so lightly along Sherlock’s scalp.

Sherlock hadn’t moved, hadn’t breathed, hadn’t made a sound. He’d thought, though, as loudly as he could:  _ Do that again, John. For Christ’s sake, do it again. _

But John hadn’t heard, apparently, or he had and was bent on driving Sherlock very suddenly and thoroughly mad. He’d lingered only briefly--mere seconds, if that--before removing his hand. “Good night,” he’d whispered, and headed off to his room, while Sherlock had sat completely and utterly still. Sherlock’s vision closed in, sparking at the edges, and every bit of his skin was tingling.  _ Shock, _ he’d thought distantly.  _ This is shock, _ and then, giddy,  _ I need a blanket. _

He didn’t...John didn’t... _they_ didn’t do that. It wasn’t that they avoided physical contact entirely--John was his doctor, after all--but the easy touches of their early years had been lost long ago, after Sherlock’s jump, after Mary’s death, after John’s stubborn insistence on staying in the suburbs. John would give Mrs Hudson the occasional kiss on the cheek or pat on the hand, and he’d give manly half-hugs to Lestrade, but he and Sherlock were both too close and not close enough for casual physical contact. They just  _ didn’t do that. _ They nodded hello and goodbye now, and comfort, when needed, came in words or silence, not touch. Sherlock missed it, god how he missed it, but he’d long ago recognised the necessity of following these critical rules. They kept John close, and they kept Sherlock sane.

But this. His  _ hair.  _ John had run his hand  _ through Sherlock’s hair, _ and then gone merrily on his way.  Sherlock, meanwhile, had sat frozen at the table, imagining the atoms of John’s skin cells merging in reaction with the atoms of his own, creating some biochemical hybrid of the two of them. It was both a comforting and disquieting thought. 

John had  _ touched him _ . He had no idea what to make of it. 

Finally, without making the conscious decision to do so, he’d risen from his chair and made his way upstairs. Once in his room, he’d crawled into bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling, alternating between pretending the pressure of the pillow was John’s hand still in his hair and wondering if he’d imagined the whole thing.

He was wondering the same thing now, as he stood sipping tea and staring at his notebook, still feeling the pressure of John’s fingers on the back of his neck. He was deeply lost in thought when his phone’s message alert sounded, and the unexpected sound managed to make him jump. He snatched up his phone, annoyed at the distraction from his, well,  _ very important  _ distraction.

_ I should like to see your new cottage. Might one anticipate an invitation sometime soon? -MH _

Shit.

Sherlock blinked before flushing with shame, and he forced John’s golden skin and burning touch from his mind. He’d been selfish, was  _ being _ selfish. He should have invited Mycroft to visit some time ago. The brothers hadn’t seen each other since Mycroft’s birthday lunch, though Sherlock had checked in regularly, texting with Anthea when Mycroft was indisposed. But now...the honey. Surely, if there was any justice in this universe, Mycroft would be able to feel the effects. Even the tiniest bit of relief would be something. 

Sherlock really should have invited him sooner. 

Next week? I’ve nothing on. -SH

The answer came quickly. 

_ One does hate to be pushy, but perhaps this weekend would be a more prudent choice, if it’s convenient. -MH _

_ Will Dr Watson be in residence? -MH _

Sherlock quickly read between the pixels, and his heart sank. Mycroft was growing concerned about his ability to travel. He hadn’t referred to John as ‘Dr Watson’ in years, either, so he was hoping to have him near to hand in his capacity as a physician. Perhaps Mycroft’s disease was nearing a crisis. He’d have to wait and see. In any case, the mysteries at hand--the honey, the bees, John’s thrilling touch--would have to be put on hold.

Thursday would suit. Let us know what time to expect you. -SH

And then, humming thoughtfully, he pulled a new jar of honey from the cupboard. Mrs Hudson’s scones, he thought, the lemon ones with honey lavender glaze, and maybe later he’d take his own pass at making baklava. And tea, of course. Lots and lots of tea.

 

\---

 

Mycroft arrived as scheduled. Stubborn to the last, he’d maintained the tradition of having an actual human driver, and Sherlock watched from the porch as the formally suited man opened the rear door and politely offered his hand. It shook Sherlock to the core of his being to see Mycroft take it, and once standing, to offer the man a quiet but unmistakably grateful smile.

When Sherlock had told John with some hesitation that Mycroft would be coming to visit, John had understood the unspoken request at once. “I’ll move to the upstairs guest room, then,” he’d said with no apparent dismay, and Sherlock had nodded, relieved. He could see now that the move had not only been thoughtful, but necessary. Mycroft’s short walk from the driveway through the entry and the kitchen to the family room winded him, leaving him pale and wheezing, and after a glass of water and the barest minute of small talk, Sherlock took pity and ordered him to go make himself presentable for dinner.

“You’ve an hour, no more,” Sherlock sniffed. “I won’t see my stew burned up by your dawdling.” He turned away and busied himself in the kitchen, pretending not to hear Mycroft’s sigh of relief. An hour wouldn’t allow much of a nap, but it was as much kindness as their history could endure.

After dinner, Sherlock brought the tea service out to the lounge. “I don’t take sweetener in my tea, Sherlock. You know that,” Mycroft said, as Sherlock picked up the honey dipper.

Sherlock smiled. “At this cottage, you do,” he said calmly.

 

\---

 

A series of thunderstorms came through Saturday afternoon, wind and rain and great grey clouds that sat close to the ground and made the green of the hills look almost achingly vibrant in contrast. Mycroft sat in the easy chair by the window and stared out without saying a word while Sherlock watched him over the cover of his notebook. There was a depth to his stillness that Sherlock recognized; he’d seen it before with their father, and their grandmother before that. John was watching Mycroft as well, Sherlock noticed, and there was no mistaking the concern in those deep blue eyes.

But that night at supper, Mycroft attacked his shepherd’s pie with relish, even asking for a second serving. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and that smile surfaced much more frequently than it had in Sherlock’s recent memory. Sherlock had taken a break from his experiments to make an apple cake for dessert, and they followed that with a glass each of brandy and, of course, tea with honey. Mycroft retired early, but there was an energy to the echo of his footsteps down the hallway that made Sherlock smile.

The next morning, John and Jeff had a lie-in as the brothers took breakfast on the patio. A bee landed on Mycroft’s plate, bold and curious, and he smiled after it as it flew away. “Come, Sherlock,” he said, when the last of the previous night’s apple cake was gone. “My driver will be here in a couple of hours. Take me for a turn around your garden.”

The grass was still wet with dew, and Sherlock offered his arm as Mycroft stepped off the patio. Mycroft took it but then didn’t let it go, and Sherlock had to look away to blink back his tears.

They started their slow walk around the flowers, enjoying, for once, the silence that stretched out between them. Finally, Mycroft stopped in the southwest corner.

“Ah,” Mycroft breathed. “Comfrey.” He considered the plant with pursed lips. “Grandmother had it in her garden too, you know. A similar species, at any rate. This one...it’s odd, isn’t it.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “How so?”

“See that turn of the petal, there. Not the usual, I think. I wonder if this species has been described. You could name it if it hasn’t been. Imagine.” Mycroft smiled down at the plant. “Immortality.”

He suddenly started coughing. Sherlock reached into his jeans pocket for a handkerchief, and Mycroft accepted it with a nod of thanks and pressed it to his lips. After a moment, he continued. 

“Comfrey roots well off cuttings, you know. Or so they say. I tried with Grandmère’s a couple of time, but I could never get it to take.” He bent slowly to brush one finger softly across the surface of one of the purple flowers. “This is quite the unusual garden. So many blooms late in the season. I’ve never seen that subspecies of lavender at this latitude, and your roses are the rarest colours. Even the hyssop smells different, sweeter than normal. The growing environment here must be unique, to allow such rarities to flourish. Microclimate, soil composition, rainfall...everything must be just right.”

“Like magic,” Sherlock murmured.

Mycroft nodded, still looking down at the plant. “That would be another way of saying it, yes.” He hesitated for a moment, and then shot Sherlock a knowing glance. “Your honey is quite delectable, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever had the like.”

Sherlock only nodded. He’d seen at the breakfast table that Mycroft had put everything together.

“Our sister’s hands are painful in the cold, some mornings,” Mycroft continued, in the same even tone. “It’s hard for her to play.”

Sherlock hadn’t seen Eurus for a few weeks, busy as he’d been with the cottage, but her emotional fires had banked with age, and they’d been allowed to keep in regular, albeit monitored, contact from a distance. “She hasn’t said.”

“Well, she wouldn’t, would she.”

Sherlock nodded again. “I could go visit a little earlier than I had planned, I suppose. Maybe take along a bottle of honey.”

“I’m sure she’d appreciate it. She always did like a bit of sweet. Now.” Mycroft tipped his head toward the cottage. “Make me one last cup of tea and I’ll gather my things. I’m sure you’re quite tired of having me in your way.”

“I really am,” Sherlock said, knowing Mycroft heard the truth in the lie.

 

\---

 

The driver arrived an hour later. They bundled Mycroft into the car, with three jars of honey in a bag and a wool blanket for his legs. John stood beside Sherlock on the porch as they waved goodbye, and they stayed there, watching, until the car was completely out of sight. 

“You’re closer now, the two of you,” John said after a time, without looking over at him. “It hurts, doesn’t it.”

Sherlock turned the words over in his head before speaking. “Some pain is good pain,” he said at last, quietly, and turned to go inside.

\---


	9. A Christmas Tree

Sherlock struggled to find his footing in the days after Mycroft’s visit. It wasn’t like him, he thought crossly, to feel so uncertain, so unsettled. The men in his life, at least the most important ones, were obviously conspiring to drive him mad.

Mycroft had immediately messaged Sherlock as soon as he was home and settled in the library of his Pall Mall home. He’d been dismissive of the traffic, critical of the neighbours, and very, very careful to let Sherlock to see the steaming cup of tea on the table next to him, with a jar of Sherlock’s honey only a few inches away. Sherlock had known this was intended as a kindness, a thank you gift of sorts, and truth be told, he’d found the gesture comforting. They ended the connection with their usual clipped goodbyes, but delivered this time with a hint of tenderness.

Afterward, as Sherlock had sat staring at the black video screen, John had come up behind him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You all right?” he’d asked, as though Sherlock wouldn’t be feeling the touch of that strong, caring hand rippling across his skin for the next week. John had smiled at him then, a real, genuine smile, and it had taken all of Sherlock’s formidable will for him not to wrap himself around John’s middle, bury his face in John’s jumper, and never, never let go. 

He’d settled for offering a smile in return, both hoping and fearing John would see all that he was feeling in his eyes. John, though, had only given his shoulder a quick squeeze before moving on.

But then, over the next few days, it became clear that this was how it was going to be now. A gentle pat on the shoulder. A guiding hand on the back. John’s feet knocking against Sherlock’s as they stretched out in their armchairs, their legs tangling briefly as each of them settled into place. It was delicious, Sherlock thought, it was delightful, and it was without question going to drive him insane.

One night, the two of them sat side by side on the sofa, drinking wine and watching something or other on the large screen over the fireplace, and over the course of the program they inched closer and closer until they were pressed together from shoulder to knee, relaxed and cozy and comfortable. As the next show started, Jeff took advantage of their relative immobility to stretch his long body out across both of their laps, close his eyes, and start purring. “We’re stuck here now,” John laughed, but he didn’t really seem to mind. Sherlock made sure to give Jeff a double portion of his milk treat the next morning, along with a tiny bit of freshly smoked salmon and a few grateful scritches under the chin. He figured he wouldn’t be able to treat the cat thus once he’d gone absolutely, totally, one-hundred-percent  _ barmy. _

As the days went on, Sherlock realised he was always aware of John’s location now: upstairs in his bedroom, stirring pasta in the kitchen, sweeping the last of the autumn leaves from the walkway. It wasn’t conscious knowledge so much as a sense of energy, a constant hum of presence that he’d never registered before. It was...satisfying. Soothing. Right. 

Perfect.

 

\---

 

“Should I get us a tree, then?” John asked one morning, out of nowhere.

Sherlock, who had been deeply engrossed in a paper on apian anatomy, blinked up at him, baffled, and then turned his head slowly to look out the window into the back garden. 

John gave a little huff of impatience. “Not that kind of tree, you idiot. A Christmas tree.”

“Oh. It is that time, isn’t it.” Sherlock hadn’t even thought of it, and he felt briefly ashamed. John had always loved Christmas, the greenery and the lights, the carols and the presents.

Presents. Christmas meant presents.  _ Bugger. _

“Sherlock?” John ducked his head to meet Sherlock’s suddenly distracted gaze, giving him a sad little smile. “It’s fine. We don’t need a tree. Don’t worry about it. The damn cat would probably just knock it down, anyway.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Don’t be an idiot, John. Of course we have to get a tree.” He gestured widely around them. “We do live in a picturesque cottage, after all. There are rules for these sorts of things. Codes of conduct.  _ Laws.” _

John grinned and looked away, but not before Sherlock saw a new light in his eyes. “Right. Wouldn’t want to get in trouble with the local constabulary. Not us.”

“Certainly not.” Sherlock leaned back in his chair and thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “Now, then. A Christmas tree in the wilds of Sussex. How would one go about finding such a thing?”

“Bob Elwes out on the other side of the village has trees for sale. Margaret from the bakery says they’re pretty nice, and he asks a fair price. I could go look, if you want.”

“Elwes?” Sherlock was puzzled. “The fire captain?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “The fire captain sells dead trees for people to set up in their ancient wooden cottages, wrap with hot lights suspended from frayed electrical wires, and then place in immediate proximity to flammable packages. Do I have that right?”

“Ha. Yes.” John chuckled. “I’m embarrassed to admit that hadn’t occurred to me. I met him at the bakery a few weeks ago, and I’ve seen him around since. Nice guy.”

“Yes, well, most passive-aggressive arsonists are.” Sherlock stood and started patting at his pockets, checking for his door keys and phone. “Shall we go then? We’ll be glad of the heated seats in the car, I think. Bit chilly out there this morning.”

John looked startled. “Well, yes, if you’d like. We could both go, sure. Okay.”

Sherlock paused and rewound the conversation of the past couple of minutes in his mind.  _ I could go look, if you want, _ John had said, soft and hopeful. “Did you not...want me to come along?”

“Oh, no, of course, Sherlock. Of course I want you to...no. Both of us should go. It will be...fun.”

“John. It’s fine. If you don’t want me to go, just tell me.”

John resolutely shook his head. “It’s not that, Sherlock. Really. It’s--no, it’s stupid.”

“John,” Sherlock repeated, fixing him with a look.

John sighed. “It’s...well. It’s a thing from my childhood. You’ll think it’s, um, sad, probably. But. We were poor, you know? You know about all of that. And Christmases were especially rough. Mum did the best she could, but it was a lot for her to handle, and my dad was just, ha. Bloody useless, to be honest. But the one thing he did every year was take a day off work, if he was working, or just, you know, go out on his own, and then come home and surprise us with a tree. It became sort of a tradition over time. A sorry tradition, maybe, but. Yeah. He’d come home smelling of peppermint and brandy, dragging it down the street behind him, and Harry and I would tumble out of the house yelling and laughing, and...anyway.  It was kind of the beginning of the season, you know? Meant we’d actually made it another year, and Christmas was really around the corner, and...well. Like I said, stupid.”

“No, it sounds--nice,” Sherlock said carefully. His own childhood homes had been decorated for the holidays by black-garbed “professionals” with carefully colour-coordinated ornaments and a box of thematically appropriate wrapping paper. The trees, Sherlock remembered, had been delivered to the house on a panel truck at precisely nine AM every December first, the team following in a van behind with their floor plans and flow charts. His mathematician mother had delighted in the precision of it all, the flawless execution and absolute lack of chaos. Once Sherlock was finally deemed old enough to be trusted, he’d been allowed to place one ornament on the main family room tree every year. 

Mycroft had always come along later and moved it.

Now, John gave Sherlock an abashed smile. “Sounds pathetic, you mean. And you’re not wrong, I know that. But when Rosie came along, I found myself continuing the tradition. I’d get a sitter, stop by a pub for a glass of brandy, and then wander out into London to find a tree. And you know, it felt great, calling for her to come to the door to see and watching her eyes light up. You’d think I’d have chopped the bloody thing down myself, the way she looked at me when she was younger. Later of course, she’d looked bored, or roll her eyes, but still. I knew she liked it.” He ducked his head, looking sheepish. “This is the first year since she was born that I haven’t had to do it,” he said to the floor. “I thought I’d be home alone this year, and I’d already decided not to bother. But we’re here now, and everything is so lovely, and I guess I thought maybe--”

“John, I am very busy here,” Sherlock interrupted loudly, indicating the papers strewn across the table. “Feel free to take the car if you have errands to run, but I’d appreciate being allowed some peace and quiet.” He flopped down into the chair and bent over the journal he’d been reading with a huff. 

John stared at him for a long moment, and then quirked a small smile. “Um, okay. Sorry. I will, then, if you don’t mind. Take the car, I mean.” 

Sherlock didn’t look up, just waved a dismissive hand toward the door. “You know the key codes.”

John nodded, still smiling, and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. “Back soon,” he said, and turned to leave. Just before he opened the door, he pulled Sherlock’s scarf off the hook and looped it around his neck. He’d been doing that lately, borrowing Sherlock’s scarf without asking. It took Sherlock’s breath away every time.

 

\---

 

A courier came by just after lunch time and handed Sherlock a flat, narrow box. Right on schedule, Sherlock thought. Mycroft’s annual Christmas tie. The card read the same as it did every year  _ (Dear Brother, It won’t kill you to try. With the compliments of the season--M) _ , but this year it was printed in Anthea’s neat block letters. Sherlock blinked at the card, and then carefully set it aside. He’d have to consider those implications later.

He opened the box and blinked with surprise. Mycroft had foregone his usual dark blue or black fine wool. Instead, this time he’d sent a silk tie in a deep amber colour, painstakingly embroidered with the images of tiny, perfect bees. 

Sherlock dropped into one of the kitchen chairs and gently lifted the tie out of the box. He sat and stared at it for several minutes as Jeff wound purring around his ankles. Then, with a wistful smile, he carefully replaced the tie into the box, refolded the tissue and closed the lid. He wouldn’t wear the bloody thing, of course--a man must have some dignity, after all--but maybe he’d just hold onto it for a while.

 

\---

 

Later that afternoon, with the house still empty and quiet, Sherlock sat back to assess where he stood with his research on the mysterious qualities of his back garden. He’d been devoting all of his copious concentration to study and experimentation, an approach that had always worked for him in the past, but this time, to his great dismay, he’d made almost no progress whatsoever.

Janine hadn’t been lying; the UCL analysis of the honey had been thorough and precise. Sherlock had replicated the experiments to the best of his ability in his little kitchen lab, and had found no flaws in the data. Lacking access to the equipment he’d need to go further, he had to assume the rest of the report was trustworthy as well. As a scientist, that thought that made his stomach turn, but his options were limited. For a moment, he found himself longing for Bart’s steel lab benches and Molly Hooper’s cheerful efficiency. She’d have enjoyed this, Sherlock thought, bees and flowers instead of corpses and chemicals. He made a mental note to send a Christmas card and a jar of honey her way soon.

After his review of the existing data, he’d tried basic, almost primitive experiments of his own. He’d heated the honey, frozen it, spun it down--nothing. The soil of the garden was rich and alive, almost warm in the hand, but under his microscope, it was just dirt. Mycroft’s mention of the uniqueness of the plants hadn’t been lost on him, but he’d studied every atlas and monograph he could lay his hands on and taken flower by flower, the variations from the standard were miniscule at best. He considered enlisting the help of botanists, but couldn’t even begin to come up with a way to explain the nature of his inquiries. “Can you come help me prove my garden isn’t magical?” seemed the kind of question that would land a man of some notoriety in the headlines of any number of unsavoury websites.

The bees themselves appeared much the same as any other honey bee from any other garden in England. Truthfully, though, he’d limited himself there; he’d vowed several weeks ago that no bee would come to harm at his hand. He knew there was an element of sentiment in that decision, but he decided to be at peace with it. They’d been here first, after all, and Janine’s warning about the bees fighting to stay at the cottage still echoed in his mind. His mind flashed to the image of a drone hovering over a stained, ancient rug at 221b, its camera aimed emptily at the flocked and silvered sitting room wall, and shivered. He couldn’t torture a creature in its own home, not even for science. 

He stared out the back window, where the bees were in the process for settling down for the night. The starlings were just winding up for their evening chatter, and the flowers, vivid and plenty, swayed in the gentle twilight breeze. The sky slipped from its brilliant day blue into a hue more suitable for the cocktail hour, and just as he saw the first star begin to twinkle on the horizon, he heard it again: the  _ click _ of intuition. This time, though, it didn’t make him wait; the truth came to him, bright and sure, with a companion swell of emotion.

He could rip the hives apart with his own hands and gather every drop of the honey into beakers, and it wouldn’t get him even a centimetre closer to solving this mystery. It wasn’t a single deviant variable he was missing, one clue or magic key; the entire system was tightly interconnected, the whole exponentially greater than its parts. Every flower, every blade of grass, every bee: it was just this  _ place. _

He couldn’t help but laugh, but he wasn’t sure if it was a laughter born of disbelief or of joy.  _ When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.  _ Somehow, of all the things that could have happened to him late in life, he’d come into a magic cottage. 

A  _ magic cottage. _

In the _ country.  _

If his mother could have lived to see it, she would have laughed for days at the thought of him in jeans and a warm jumper, puttering around a garden like a--well, like his father. His dad had once claimed to be a moron, but Sherlock knew for a fact he’d been as bright as anyone. He’d just been a man with the gift for contentment, and a willingness to be at ease with the wonder of the world.

Could Sherlock find that kind of peace here? Was such a thing even possible?

He hadn’t intended to stay in Sussex for long, but the mystery of the honey had lured him in and now, with the added enticement of John’s soft eyes and occasional maddening, delectable touches, Sherlock was beginning to think he’d never again feel completely at home among the crowded streets and cold metal of London. He could feel the roots of this place starting to wind around him, not in restraint but as support, holding him sure and steady and strong. Maybe he, too, could be at ease. Maybe he, too, could be content. Maybe all of this was a lesson it was time for him to learn.

He looked down at his hands. There was  _ magic _ here, and it was inside him now _ ,  _ circulating through his veins, gilding the surface of his skin. And John, too. It was inside them both and it was good.

Perhaps, as much as it pained him to admit, Janine was right. Perhaps this  _ was _ a thing that needed accepting, rather than understanding. 

The gentle beep of a car horn interrupted his reverie. Almost giddy, he rose and made his way to the front door. In the driveway, just a few metres from the stoop, John was wrestling a decent-sized evergreen tree from the backseat of the car. He paused and lifted one hand in a cheery wave. “Special delivery,” he called, smiling, and his blue eyes were sparkling above cheeks tinted pink with cold and (most likely, according to tradition) liquor. He looked delighted with himself and the tree. 

He looked  _ happy. _

Sherlock felt a flutter in his chest, warm and gentle. Peace, he thought. Ease. Contentment.  _ Magic. _ “Let’s see this tree, then,” he said, matching John’s smile and holding the front door open wide.

\---


	10. Jeff's Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The magic only goes so far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short but fairly intense chapter. It's not explicit. If you'd like a warning, please consult the notes at the end of the chapter.
> 
> I am truly sorry.

It took the better part of the next day to get the house decorated for the holiday, but Sherlock found the experience rather pleasant. With a remarkable minimum of squabble, he and John raised the tree in the farthest corner of the lounge. John had purchased a few boxes of lights in the village, and Sherlock had a couple of boxes of ornaments messengered over from a London shop he knew. Together, they bought a quilted tree skirt from a friendly seamstress at a Christmas market in the next town. Candles on the mantelpiece, garland around the old silver mirror, some red ribbon twisted into reluctant bows and hung off the posts of the banister, and even Sherlock had to admit the cottage was looking, as the saying went, merry and bright. 

With their efforts completed, they toasted their success with a single glass of sherry each, but as a cold wind rattled the windows, they agreed there was no good reason to stop there. After the second glass, John slipped upstairs to don a truly hideous Christmas jumper; after the third, Sherlock pulled out his violin. The fire crackled as they laughed the hours away, and Sherlock slipped under the covers that night with a smile on his face as he considered the previously unimaginable notion of being filled with ‘Christmas spirit.’ 

The next afternoon, Jeff didn’t come home at tea time.

John called, and cursed, and spent several minutes on the patio banging on a cat food tin with a spoon. “That bastard,” he muttered, peering out into the darkening garden. “Coldest day we’ve had in weeks, and he goes missing. I’ve half a mind to leave him out there, the little wanker.”

Sherlock just frowned and reached for his jacket and a pocket torch. A minute later, with a last muttered curse, John did the same. 

They split the yard between them and started their search, shining their lights under the bushes and between the slats of the fence. It didn’t take Sherlock long to find him. The little body was curled up under the evergreen in the back corner, still and stiff in a pile of pine needles. He’d been dead about three hours, maybe four.

“John,” he said quietly into the night, knowing his voice would carry across the yard. The rustling behind him stopped immediately, and he heard a deep sigh. Not surprised, then.

It wasn’t his place to be sad, really, Sherlock thought, as he stood and stepped back. Jeff hadn’t been his, after all. They’d been--acquaintances, maybe, if such a thing were possible between species. Friendly, if not friends. Sherlock had, at times, been a warm body to lie on, and Jeff had been a purring soft thing to touch. It was foolish to get attached to an animal. 

For the first time in several weeks, Sherlock felt the scar in his chest twinge.

John slipped by him to kneel in front of the body, and Sherlock looked away, over the fence to the hills beyond. A storm was gathering on the horizon, its fat clouds visible in the greying twilight. He could smell the gathering electricity, feel the cool of the changing temperature. It was going to be a turbulent night, he thought, as John rose to standing beside him.

John cleared his throat. “We should bury him,” he murmured. “Before the rain starts.”

Sherlock nodded and headed for the garden shed for the shovel.

They buried him beneath the evergreen, deeply enough to assure that the wild animals of the area would let him rest in peace. Above them, a flock of starlings started to rustle and sing, preparing for a long, wet winter night. 

John scuffed the tip of his shoe in the needles at the edge of the fresh grave, and tipped his chin up toward the chattering birds. “Do you--do you think he was trying,” he said, just loudly enough to be heard.

“He was more of a mouser, wasn’t he?” Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Maybe,” John echoed. “I think--I’d like to think of him that way, you know? Staying in the game until the very end.” He shook his head and chuckled ruefully. “He always was an ambitious fucker.”

Sherlock laughed. “I’ll miss him,” he blurted, and then blinked, surprised.

“Yeah.” John sighed. “Yeah. Me too, I guess.” He ran his hand through his hair and then looked over to Sherlock as he gestured down toward the grave. “Not eternal life, then, is it. This place. You know. The honey.”

Sherlock froze, looking back at John from the corner of his eye. He searched his memory frantically, but he hadn’t said anything to give it away, he was certain of it. He’d had no wish to had his sanity doubted, after all, and it was, frankly, a fantastic claim.  _ Sod it. _ He’d promised he hadn’t been experimenting, and he  _ hadn’t, _ but this had to look suspicious. He thought to deny it, to deny everything, but in the next second he realised it was already too late. It was too bloody late. John was going to be furious, except...he wasn’t, apparently. He was just standing there, looking at Sherlock with a small, sad smile.

“I’m not an idiot, you know,” John said softly. “He was so much better here, I couldn’t help but notice. At first I thought it was just being in the country, you know, fresh air and all that rot, but that night he chased the moth through the house, I got to thinking. You gave him that milk and honey almost from the start, and that wasn’t a bad thing, obviously, but...he started playing like he was a kitten again, and his appetite improved, and he seemed, I don’t know, comfortable, and--well. I  _ am _ a doctor, and like I said, it got me thinking. Ever since Janine gave you this place, we’ve all felt better in some way. My leg, for one thing. You’ve seemed, I don’t know, stronger. Like you’ve had more stamina. And Mycroft, Christ. He looked like a new man when he left. And Mrs Hudson, who’s off doing Zumba now, whatever that is, and she hasn’t even _ been _ here...but you  _ did _ send her honey, didn’t you.”

Sherlock swallowed. “John, I--I don’t know what to say. I didn’t know when I came here. Janine knew some of it, apparently, but she didn’t tell me before we came here. It wasn’t an experiment, I swear it.”

John reached over and gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “Jesus, calm down. I didn’t think so. You’re just starting to figure it all out, aren’t you. I’ve seen what you’ve been reading, and the tests you’ve been running..I do trust you, you know.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Okay. Thank you. That’s--good.”

John nodded and went on. “It’s just--the honey  _ helps, _ doesn’t it _.  _ If you hurt. It’s an analgesic of some sort, which sounds insane, but it is. And maybe it does other stuff, who knows, but it doesn’t--” He sighed and motioned down at the little grave again. “We don’t get to live forever.”

Sherlock stared at him. “I--guess not,” he said finally. “Seems silly to have to say so, but no. Not forever. Just better, maybe.”

John nodded. “Best keep the life insurance payments up, then.”

“Probably for the best.” 

John gave him a quick smile and nodded toward the house. “Well. It’s going to start raining any minute, and I’ve got to call Rosie.” He checked his watch. “On second thought, maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow.”

“What will you tell her?” Sherlock asked, as they started toward the patio.

“Now  _ that _ is a great question.” John thought for a moment. “I can’t tell her about the honey, she’ll think we’ve lost our minds. I guess I’ll just tell her...he was happy at the end, and he wasn’t in any pain. That’s the best I can do, I think.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll put on the kettle.”

Behind them, the birds fell silent as the first raindrops of the storm began to fall. Sherlock spared a last thought for Jeff, resting peacefully now and without a care as the sky prepared to rage above him.

And then he made tea. He made sure the little honey dish was full.

\---

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Jeff the cat is found dead after peacefully passing away in the garden. There is a fairly important revelation in this chapter, so consider picking up about halfway through with the paragraph that begins: “Yeah.” John sighed. “Yeah. Me too, I guess.”


	11. Rosie's Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, all.

The rain had stopped by the next morning, but the sky was still dismal and grey. Appropriate, thought Sherlock, who turned to greet John as he walked into the kitchen. John was wearing an expression that was some mixture of determined and resigned, topped with an extra coating of exhaustion. Again, appropriate. Sherlock didn’t envy him the call he had to make.

“Here, I made you a nice cup of stalling technique,” Sherlock said, handing John a mug of tea. “Take your time.”

John took the cup with a grateful smile. “Thanks. I need it. Slept like shit.” He walked over to the back window, blowing on the tea to cool it. “Hold on. What’s that?”

“What? Where?”

“Under the tree there, where we buried Jeff. It’s hard to see for the mist, but…”

“Oh.” Sherlock stood up and came to stand beside him. “I did that last night. It’s one of the stones from the side yard walkway, around by the roses. I’d catch sleeping on it sometimes in the afternoons. Black slate, you know, heats up in the sun. Clever of him to figure it out, really.” Sherlock hesitated. “Is it all right, then?” he asked quietly. “Only I thought he should have some sort of marker, and it’s all I had at hand. We can get something made, if you--”

“No,” John interrupted. “No, that’s--” He trailed off, still staring thoughtfully out the window. “She’ll want to come visit,” he said at last. “You know. Pay her respects.”

“Of course. Rosie is always welcome, John.”

John glanced over and gave him a grateful smile. 

“Not sure how long she’ll be able to stay. She was making some noise about Christmas in Spain with some friends, but…” He sighed. “Well. No point in delaying, I suppose.”

Sherlock hummed assent and went to grab his jacket, mumbling something about needing to check the hives. John would want his privacy for this conversation.

 

\---

 

Three days later, John summoned his bravest smile and rode off to collect Rosie from the station. Sherlock met her at the front door of the cottage with a smile and a kiss on the cheek, and after a quick glance to ensure John had the luggage situation well in hand, he stood aside to let her enter.

“I missed you, old man,” Rosie said fondly, patting his still-trim middle as she passed. “Good to see you still among the living.”

“I could still take you, youngster,” he replied calmly. It was an old joke between them. “I see you survived your first semester.”

She snorted. “As if there was ever any question. Good tip of yours on befriending the librarian, by the way. A biscuit and a latte, and boom. Saved me all kinds of work.”

“And the bartender at your local?”

She grinned. “That, too.  _ Amazing _ faculty gossip.” 

“I am pleased to see my experience serving the next generation.” He took her coat and scarf, hanging them with care on the third hook he’d added just that morning. “Please make yourself comfortable,” he said, and then stood back and watched as her bright eyes took in the cottage. 

He saw her observe the small kitchen, with its neat countertops and chaotic island; the lounge, with its beat-up sofa and armchairs placed just so in front of the fireplace in that familiar tableau; the small, brightly lit hallway that led to the downstairs bedroom, and the darker staircase off to the side that led upstairs. She took a few steps into the kitchen and trailed her fingers along the edge of the wooden farm table, narrowing her eyes at the vivid and expansive back garden, and then pointedly cleared her throat. “Lovely. Very sweet. Just a gift, then, what? Ex-girlfriend had too much money on her hands? Must be nice.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said serenely. “I’ve no complaints. Tea?”

“Christ, yeah.” She nodded toward the corner of the lounge. “Dad got you a tree.”

Sherlock noticed it wasn’t a question. “Yes.”

“Interesting.”

He busied himself with the kettle, watching from the corner of his eye as she again scanned the lounge, licking her lips in an unconscious version of John’s old nervous tell. Her eyes settled on the staircase.

“Two bedrooms upstairs?” she asked brightly. 

Sherlock leaned back against the counter and rolled his eyes. “Spying for Mrs Hudson again, I see.”

Rosie shrugged. “She pays in baked goods.” She lifted one eyebrow. “Well?”

“You already know the answer, but feel free to go look,” he said, waving one hand casually toward the staircase. “Your father’s virtue is safe with me.”

Rosie grinned, and Sherlock was pleased to see it reach her eyes. “She’ll be ever so disappointed.” 

Just then, with a burst of cold air, John came through the front door. “What’s that?” John asked, as he placed Rosie’s duffel on the bench in the front hallway. He straightened and looked between them with a too-bright smile. “Who’s disappointed?”

Rosie tensed as John walked closer, Sherlock noticed, looking away and letting her face go blank, and as he watched, she clenched her fists and licked her lips again. She didn’t reply, and an uncomfortable silence settled between the three of them. 

“We’ll have tea in a while,” Sherlock finally said in a casual tone, and felt rather than saw John’s look of gratitude.  _ “Coq au vin, _ my grandmother’s recipe. Should be ready in an hour or so. Rosie, your room is right down that hall if you’d like to freshen up. I’ll leave your cup by the door.”

“I think…” Rosie glanced over her shoulder, toward the back door. “He’s out there, isn’t he?” she asked softly.

“Yeah, love. I’ll show you--” John started toward her, but Rosie held up one hand. 

“Just let me, Dad,” she said firmly. John stopped short, frowning, but Sherlock gave him a tiny shake of the head and walked over to the sofa. He picked up a throw blanket from the arm of the chair and wrapped it around her shoulders.  

“Under the tall pine to the left,” he said in a low voice. “The ground is a little uneven. There’s a torch by the door.”

She nodded and pulled the blanket just a little closer before heading outside. The two men stood and watched her through the windows as she searched the garden. It didn’t take her long to find the little grave. Her back was turned to them, but Sherlock saw her shoulders shaking, saw her kneel to brush the pine needles from the black stone, before lifting her head to look up into the tree above her. The sun was close to setting, and even through the tightly closed windows, he could hear the chatter of the starlings who nested there as they settled in for the evening. 

After another few minutes, she rose and walked inside. John started to take a step toward her, but then stopped himself, leaning back on his heels and slipping his hands into his pockets. “All right, then?” he asked quietly. Rosie nodded and quickly walked to the hallway and out of sight. Sherlock saw John’s shoulders sag as the bedroom door clicked shut.

“Christ, I’m sorry,” John said, rubbing his face. “You should have seen her in the car. Wouldn’t say a word. I thought she was going to stare an icicle into existence and stab me with it.” He sighed. “She must be really upset about Jeff, the poor girl. What did she say to you before I came in?”

Enough, Sherlock thought, but almost nothing. He felt a little tickle at his scar--not a full twinge, just a light tingling. He thought back to when John had walked in, Rosie’s nervous lick of her lips, how she’d become so still. Rosie’s anger was usually bright and burning; this was something else. 

John was waiting patiently for an answer. “She’s hurting, John,” Sherlock said, which was true enough. “Just give her some time.”

Dinner that night was a quiet affair. Rosie ate well, but rebuffed all attempts at conversation and rose from the table as soon as pudding was over. John, his shoulders slumped and his eyes tired, excused himself to his own room shortly afterward.

Sherlock rinsed the dishes and wiped the counters as soundlessly as possible, his mind turning over everything that hadn’t been said. The fire was down to embers, but he’d been sure to lay in a store of firewood for the weekend, and it was only the work of a few minutes to get it blazing again. Then he poured a glass of wine, settled into his armchair, and waited.

Thirty minutes later, he heard the guest room door creak open, and the shuffle of slippers in the hallway. “Come on in, Rosie,” he said quietly. “There’s another glass here on the table.”

He heard her chuckle softly as she made her way across the lounge. “That obvious, am I?”

“Not at all.” She poured herself a glass of wine and then curled up in the other chair. 

“I liked the grave stone. That was you, wasn’t it.”

“Well, yes,” he said with some hesitation. “But your father--”

“It’s okay,” she interrupted. “It’s nice. I mean. The whole...thing. I like the birds. I like that he’s...not alone.”

Sherlock hummed. “Are you cold? I can get get that blanket for you, if you’d like.”

“I’m fine. The fire is...fine. Good enough.” She took a sip of her wine. “Have you figured it out, then?”

He leaned back in his chair, considering her in the firelight. She seemed calm, almost resolute. Prepared, probably far more than he was. He steeled himself. “I think so,” he said at last. You’ve talked to Mycroft.” 

Rosie lifted her glass in a mock toast, looking not at all surprised. “Well done.”

“It’s fine, you know. It’s what I would have done. I’m rather surprised you waited this long, to be honest.”

She took a deep breath. “I’ve known for a long time that there were things that Dad wasn’t telling me. He’s a terrible liar, but you know that. I was fairly certain he’d asked you to keep his secrets as well.” She lifted an inquiring eyebrow, and he shrugged in acknowledgment. “Right. But it’s been--eating at me forever, you know, since I was a kid. Once I got to uni, got some time and space of my own, I decided it was time to find out. I realised I’d have some time right when break started, even before...” She waved toward the backyard and the grave under the conifer. “So. I called Mycroft’s office. Figured if he wouldn’t help me, he’d give me enough clues to help me suss out who would.”

Sherlock had to smirk at that. Rosie had known the Holmes brothers for a long time, and Mycroft had never been able to refuse her.

She took another sip of wine and continued. “Ended up talking to that assistant of his. My god, but she’s posh, and clever, Jesus. Still ended up being helpful enough. She cleared everything she told me with him first, but he wouldn’t come to the phone.”

_ Or couldn’t,  _ Sherlock thought briefly, his eyes drifting to his own mobile, resting dark on the coffee table. He’d have to call Anthea first thing in the morning. “Are you all right?” he asked bluntly. “What did she tell you?”

She shrugged. “The truth, finally,” she said, and set down her glass. She unlocked her phone, poked at the screen for a moment, and then turned it around to face him. Mary, black haired and heavily made up in one of her many disguises, was looking up at him through the years. His heart flipped, and this time, his scar throughly twinged.

He reached out a finger and swiped it across the screen. There she was, brunette in a biker jacket; with another swipe, she was there with short red hair, wearing a flowered blouse and a cardigan jumper. Another swipe, and there she was on the day she married John Watson, blond and radiant and, he knew, perfectly and genuinely happy. What would she look like now, he wondered suddenly. He’d never even thought about it. She would have stayed blond, surely; it suited her, and would have hidden any grey that dared to surface. Her smile, always quick and bright, wouldn’t have dulled, he was sure, and her eyes would have stayed as sharp as her mind.

He swallowed hard and turned the phone back around to face her. “It’s good that you know,” he said gently. “It’s not easy to learn these things, but secrets, they can…” He sighed and shook his head. “Is there anything specific you want to know? I’ll tell you if I can.”

Tears filled her eyes as she looked back down at the face of her mother on her wedding day. “I can’t--” she whispered, and Sherlock impulsively reached across and covered her free hand where it lay on the arm of the chair. After a moment, she turned her hand over and wound her fingers through his. 

“She did--bad things. Didn’t she. Very bad things. That’s what Dad didn’t want me to know.”

He squeezed her fingers once. “Now that you do know, can you blame him?”

“I--guess not,” she said quietly. “But it’s difficult for me to believe that he  _ knew.” _

“He didn't know at first. He didn’t approve, if that helps.”

She gave a weak smile. “Of course he didn’t.” She glanced up and then looked away. “You knew, too. You knew...everything.”

Sherlock’s scar twinged again, and he wondered exactly how much Anthea had told her. “Yes. Eventually.”

She sighed deeply. “She wasn’t a good person, was she. Not at all.”

“I don’t like to judge, but...I suppose not, in the grand scheme of things.” 

_ “You _ don’t like to judge.” She tried to smile at him, but tears filled her eyes. “Sherlock...she loved me, right? Wait, no. Don’t answer that.”

Sherlock squeezed her hand again. “Rosie, she did,” he said with all the conviction he could summon. “I am certain of this as I am of anything on this planet. Yes. She loved you.”

She blinked at him, and he watched as a tear slipped out to fall down her cheek. She slid her hand out of his and curled both of her arms into her chest, hunching protectively, instinctively, over her own heart. Her eyes closed and her voice, when it came, was small and fragile.

“How--how do I live? Knowing about her? About...about me?”

This was what he’d seen this in her when she’d walked into the cottage yesterday, then, a mixture of terror and rage she was trying her best to control. Was she worried that a monster raged inside her, too? She looked so young and afraid, so lost.

Young, afraid, and lost.  _ Afraid,  _ with good reason, of a old family secret, of a  _ ghost. _ Suddenly, he knew exactly what to say.

Slowly, broadcasting his movements, he rose and moved over to sit on the arm of her chair. As gently as he could, he reached over and wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her in close. He felt rather than heard her tiny sobs, and his heart ached. But maybe, maybe, he could help.

“Have I ever told you,” he murmured into her hair, “about my sister?”

 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sherlock fandom suffered a great loss with the passing of Chucksauce this week. If you did not know their work, check it out. They had access to a level of mystery and magic I could only imagine. I, for one, lost a good friend, a dear and dazzling soul I loved very much. I'm very grateful I had the opportunity to tell them so, but I will always be haunted by their absence.
> 
> I will be writing something in their honor next spring. In the meantime, I love you all.


	12. Christmas Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a brief epilogue to follow tomorrow, but here ends the bulk of the tale. Thank you all for coming along for this ride. And thanks again, with love and kisses, to justawaystogo/timewellspent, my darling friend Holly, who saw fit to bid on my humble services at auction and trusted me to tell her a story. I hope you've enjoyed it, my dear.
> 
> And thanks to all who have commented, kudosed, chatted with me on Twitter, or interacted with me (in a completely wholesome and not at all NSFW manner) on Tumblr. You've been bright lights in what has turned out to be a dark time. To those who hurt along with me: much love. 
> 
> And now to Sussex.
> 
> \---

John was sitting on the back patio when Sherlock finally made it downstairs the next morning.  Sherlock added an extra dab of honey to his tea and blearily stumbled out the back door, noting as he passed that the door to the guest room was still firmly shut. The grey, cloudy weather of recent days had passed at last, and the not-early sun was painting the leaves and blooms of the garden with exquisite detail. It was beautiful.

And  _ cold. _ Sherlock shivered at the chill that clung to the cobblestones as he dropped into a chair.

John glanced at him. “You and Rosie had a late night, I see.”

Sherlock paused with his teacup halfway to his lips. “Excellent deduction.”

“Hardly. Two empty wine glasses in front of the fireplace, and neither of you up with the morning half gone. Even Anderson could figure that one out.”

“No need to be harsh, John.” Sherlock carefully placed his mug down on the tabletop. “Are you upset?”

“That she talked to you? No.” John gave him a sad smile. ”You two have always been close. Besides, you’re her godfather. I just wish she would talk to me, too.” 

Sherlock only nodded. He shared the sentiment and had done his best to convince Rosie to talk her recent discovery over with John before she left. He’d gone to bed uncertain of success.

John sighed and looked back out at the garden. “I’m glad she’s getting some rest, at least.”

“She was pretty tired. I’m sure she’ll be up soon, though.” Sherlock stood and stretched. “In the meantime, scones, I think.”

“The ones with the lavender glaze?”

Sherlock lifted his cup toward John in agreement. “The very ones.”

“Sounds heavenly. Thanks.”

Sherlock went back inside and pulled an extra jar of honey from the storage cabinet. It was a  _ honey _ lavender glaze, actually, and Sherlock was going to put the emphasis on the honey. Janine had said the honey worked on hangovers, but he had no idea if it extended to the emotional kind. Either way, it couldn’t hurt.

 

\---

 

Rosie stumbled into the kitchen half an hour later. “You made scones?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

Sherlock nodded. “Mrs Hudson’s favourites,” he answered over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe what I had to promise to get the recipe. First batch should be out in three minutes, so you’ve timed it perfectly. Kettle’s just boiled.”

Rosie sighed with relief. “You’re the best godparent  _ ever.” _

“I won’t tell Mrs Hudson you said that.” He scattered some flour over the pastry board, watching from the corner of his eye as she stepped up to the counter. She’d needed the cry, and the sleep even more, apparently: her eyes were still a bit red around the rims, but she seemed looser, more at ease, and her skin was…

Her skin was  _ glowing.  _ Oh, yes. This boded well for his mission.

Holding back a smile, he picked up a towel and starting wiping the countertop. “Still planning to leave today?” he asked, feigning all the indifference he could muster. 

“Hmm? Oh. Yeah. I don’t think I told you,” she said as she stirred her tea. “There’s a group of us meeting up in Malaga for Christmas. Need to get away from all the winter weather. Damn, but it rains a lot in Edinburgh.”

“Don’t blame you at all. A little sun will do you good.” He leaned a little closer, glancing briefly at the back door. “And how are you feeling this morning?” he asked in a low voice.

“Better.” She paused, looking thoughtful for a moment. “Much better, actually. I guess the talking really helped.” She glanced at him shyly. “Thank you, by the way. I’m really sorry that--”

“No need to apologise,” he interrupted, wiping his hands. The kitchen timer went off, and he bustled over to open the oven door. “Ah, lovely,” he said with satisfaction, pulling out the baking sheet. “Even from a distance, Mrs Hudson never fails me.”

“They smell wonderful.” He could feel her eyes on his back as he moved the scones from the tray to a cooling rack and starting preparing the glaze. “Where’s Dad?”

“Out back. He’s been up a while, I think.” He turned to face her, crossing his arms as he leaned against the counter. “Did you think about what I said?”

“About telling him? Pretty much all night, actually.”

“And?”

“And...when I fell asleep, I didn’t think I’d be up for it. Seemed like it would just be stirring up trouble. But now…” She turned to look out the back window. “Should I?” she asked quietly.

“You already know what I think.” He leaned over and gently squeezed her arm. “It’s never going to get better between you if you don’t deal with this.”

She bit her lip. “I’m scared,” she whispered. “What if he runs away?”

“What if he does? You chase him, and you have it out. Or you don’t, but it’s one less secret you have to carry. But I know for a fact that he wants things between you to be...better. He’s ready for this, Rosie.”

“You think so?” she asked, with a little quirk of her lips.

“Absolutely. Possibly. Just...take him a fresh cup of tea and some scones and go talk to him.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

Sherlock slid over a plate of scones and pointed at the teapot. “It’s not, of course. It’s going to be shit. But I think you have to try, don’t you?”

Rosie drew in a deep breath, nodded once, and then turned to make her father a cup of tea. Sherlock nudged the honey dish in her direction, and she took the unsubtle hint. She and John were so much the same, Sherlock thought as he watched her. Brave in spirit, but guarded in heart. God, he hoped this wasn’t a mistake. But John had told him for years that an untreated wound only scarred, never healed.

Sherlock followed behind her to help with the door, grabbing the extra blanket from the sofa as he passed. “Morning, Dad,” Rosie said brightly, setting the mug in front of John, as he looked up at her with cautious welcome. “Brought you some breakfast.”

“I see that. Thanks, love.” John looked over at Sherlock. “Are you joining us, then?”

Sherlock settled the blanket around Rosie’s already shivering shoulders, pausing a moment to squeeze her shoulder in support. “You two have your tea. I’ve got chores to do.” 

Once inside, he positioned himself precisely at the countertop halfway between the monitor and the sink. It just so happened the grout needed work there, a task he’d been putting off for ages, and if the spot happened to offer a clear view out the back window, well. That was just a coincidence. Anyway, it wasn’t technically spying if you couldn’t hear the conversation, he reasoned, deciding to ignore his easy skill with reading lips.

It didn’t take long. 

John leaned back, slowly, his expression moving from surprise to dismay to that particular brand of closed off that Sherlock had never been able to crack. That was never a good sign. If Mycroft hadn’t been ill, Sherlock thought, he’d have been in for it. 

Sherlock leaned on the counter, chin in hand, and watched. Rosie had her phone out now, and he saw John wince as she swiped her finger across the screen. There were no pictures of Mary in John’s bedroom or around the cottage, no photo albums in the closets; Sherlock had commented on it once, and had gotten that closed-off expression for his trouble. John probably hadn’t seen an actual photograph of Mary in years. All he’d had to remember her by was what she’d left behind in their daughter. 

For a moment, Sherlock thought John was about to stand up and walk away from the table, and he found himself holding his breath. Not now, John, he thought wildly, his eyes flicking over to the lock on the door. For god’s sake, not now.

But John took a deep breath, and with infinite care, reached for the phone. Rosie scooted her chair around close beside him and together, they flipped through the pictures. It wasn’t an easy discussion, Sherlock could tell. John bit his lip and looked away several times; Rosie pointed insistently at the screen and clutched at the fabric of her shirt over her heart. He could hear low intense mumbles between periods of near shouting.

Finally, everything went quiet. The storm, it seemed, had blown out. As Sherlock watched, John reached over and took Rosie’s hand. He didn’t need to be an expert in surveillance to know what John was saying.

_ I’m sorry. I love you _ .

Then they both started crying, and Sherlock, distressed but hopeful, decided to give them their privacy. The front porch needed sweeping anyway. They’d be able to find him if they needed him.

 

\---

 

Sherlock was sitting on the stoop when Rosie came to find him a couple of hours later. Her eyes were red and swollen, but there was a new ease about her. “I’d better get going,” she said. “Got a flight out of Heathrow at midnight. Mind if I use the car? I was just going to head over to the station on my own, if that’s all right. Dad’s kinda…”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock assured her. “Everything all right, then?”

She nodded. “Listen…”

“I said it’s fine, Rosie,” Sherlock said quietly.

“No, it’s not. I mean, it is, but you need to hear this. I said it to Dad, but I’ll say it to you, too.” She drew in a deep breath. “I...forgive you.” She looked at him searchingly. “Do you understand?”

He felt that old familiar pain in his chest, but only for a moment. He smiled up at her. “I think I do. Some things need to be said as much as they need to be heard.”

She smiled, looking relieved. “Exactly.” 

He patted the deck beside him, and she sat, leaning her head against his shoulder. A fresh growth of buds had just bloomed among the vines that twisted across the entryway, and the winter air was alight with the scent of roses. A few bees flitted about, dancing from flower to flower, while a faint hint of birdsong floated around the corner from the backyard. “It’s  _ so _ beautiful here,” Rosie sighed. 

Sherlock hummed in agreement, and the quiet moment stretched comfortably between them. 

“He’s different here,” she said at last. 

Sherlock considered. “In some ways, maybe.”

_ “You’re  _ different here. Less...urgent.”

He snorted. “A person cannot be urgent, Rosamund.”

_ “You _ can.” Rosie stretched out her legs and stared down at her boots. “He bought you a tree.”

He looked over at her now, eyebrows lifted. “He did. He said it was an annual tradition that had started with his father, and he didn’t want to break it.” 

“Is that all he told you?”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “Should I ask?”

“Oh, I think so.” She looked back out at the conifers that edged the driveway, so green compared with the drab beige of the grass beyond. “His dad, my grandfather...well. That man was a piece of work. You think Dad is bad with emotion?” She shook her head, smiling ruefully. “He comes by it honestly, I can tell you that.”

“He’s...implied that was the situation,” Sherlock said carefully. 

“Case in point, I think. The Watson family motto: Don’t say it if you can imply it.”

He laughed. “You should hear the Holmes motto. It would make your blood curdle.”

She smirked. “I’m sure you’ve lived up to it, too. Anyway. Apparently early on in this tree thing--Dad must have been five or so, so Harry would have been what, seven--my grandfather took the two of them into the family room and sat them down. He pointed at the tree and told them that any time they wondered if he cared about them, they should remember the Christmas trees. He took a deep breath--Dad told me his face turned quite red--and then he said that he only did it because he loved them. Dad said it’s the only time he ever heard him use the word.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked down at his hands, which without his conscious knowledge had clasped tightly in his lap. “That’s--oh. Well.”

“Right. In a fucked up way, it’s kind of sweet. Dad didn’t tell you?”

“No. He just told me his father came home drunk on brandy every year, dragging the tree behind him.”

She shrugged. “Well, that’s probably true. Pretty sure the old man got drunk every time he walked out the door, honestly, and most of the times he was home, too. But still, he got up off his arse once a year and went out and found a pine tree. Shit, he might have gone and cut it down in a park, if times were hard. Still, the point is that he did it, and once he even went to the trouble to tell them why.” She leaned back, bracing herself against the deck, and looked up at the clear blue sky. “Dad told me this story as soon as he thought I’d remember it. Then he told me that he, too, was terrible with words, but that he wanted me to promise to always remember the Christmas trees. He said they were a gift that came straight from the heart.”

“I see.” Sherlock found that his own heart had started racing. “I’m not sure why you felt the need to tell me this...”

“Then you’re being purposely obtuse.” She rose and hopped down the steps before turning to face him. “I’m not stupid, Sherlock. I see it. It’s been there forever, and you’re both fools to pretend it doesn’t exist.”

He blinked up at her, nonplussed. “Rosie. I’m not--we aren’t--”

“Well, maybe you bloody well should be.” She shrugged one shoulder toward the walkway to the backyard. “Your turn, Mr Holmes.”

“For  _ what?” _

“I’m quite certain I have no idea.”

He was still staring, his mouth literally hanging open. “Why...do the women in my life insist on complicating things so. Just--why. Can you tell me that, please?”

She stepped forward and put her hand on his cheek, smiling warmly. “Because we want you to be happy, you idiot.”  

He briefly leaned into her touch and then stood, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to say right now.”

“To me? Nothing. Well, maybe happy Christmas. To my dad…” She winked. “You’ll figure it out. Now, Spain awaits. I’ll grab my bag and leave you to it.”

“We’ll miss you.”

“I’ll come back to visit, I promise. Maybe I’ll bring some friends for that extra spare room.” Giggling, she reached up to give him a quick hug. “Thanks again for Jeff,” she whispered into his ear.

He sighed and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Safe travels, little one. Let us know when you get there.”

She gave him one last roll of the eyes. “Fine, whatever,” she muttered, and winked. He saw her off with a wave and then, terrified, resigned, exhilarated, he went to find her father.

 

\---

 

John was still sitting on the patio, eyes fixed unseeingly on the garden. Sherlock watched him from the kitchen for a few minutes, worrying at his lower lip, and then did all he could think to do: add water to the kettle, and rummage through the cupboard for biscuits. 

“Might be a little sweeter than normal,” Sherlock said, placing the freshly filled mug on the outside table. “You rather look like you could use it.”

John nodded, his gaze still distant. “Rosie’s off, then?”

“Took the car. I slipped a jar of honey in her bag while you two were...talking.” He paused, debating, but finally decided it was best to be direct. “I’m glad she told you. About Mary.”

John looked over at him, with eyes were as bloodshot and swollen as Rosie’s had been. “Did the honey do this?” he asked quietly. “Does it work on...emotions? Relationships?”

Sherlock sat down in the chair next to him. “I asked once. Janine told me no. That some people are just capable of forgiveness. I think...there’s something to that.” He watched as a bee landed on John’s plate and was reminded of Mycroft’s hand in the crook of his arm as they circled around the garden. “I’d like to think we don’t need magic for these sorts of things.”

John hummed. “Maybe,” he said thoughtfully. “Rosie can be fiery, Christ knows, but she does have a big heart.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock carefully reached over and patted John’s arm. “Runs in the family, I’d say.”

A minute passed. John finally reached for his cup, taking a sip before leaning back into his chair.

“I got a message this morning, from the clinic. Just checking in. I’m supposed to go back to London after the new year, remember?”

Sherlock felt his stomach drop. “Oh. I’d completely forgotten.”

“Me too, strangely enough.” John took another sip. “But I’ve been sitting here thinking. I love practice, you know that, helping people, but maybe...maybe it’s time for me to retire.”

“Really?” Sherlock looked at him, surprised. “Feeling your age, Doctor Watson?” 

“Ha. The opposite, actually.”

“Then why?”

John set his cup down and again looked away, out to the garden. His expression took on an edge of determination, and his already pink cheeks grew a shade pinker. “Because Rosie told me something else today,” he said, his voice just a little rough.

“Christ, she’s not pregnant, is she?”

John burst out laughing. “What? No, you idiot, Rosie’s not pregnant. Jesus.”

“Then what?”

John was still chuckling. “Way to kill a moment, you dumbarse. Shit. I was going to--I’m trying to tell you--” He drew in a deep breath and finally looked Sherlock square in the face. “What Rosie told me was that I love you.” He smiled wryly. “Apparently it’s obvious.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew to John’s face. Hearing those forever longed-for words in that familiar, beloved voice...all at once Sherlock was hot and cold, distressed and elated, shaking and frozen. It took him nearly a full second to remember how to speak. “Oh,” he finally managed, a victory of muscle memory.

“Yeah.” John was still smiling, his eyes twinkling now. “Announced it as though it would be news to me, but I had to disappoint her. I told her I already knew.”

_ “Oh.” _ Sherlock blinked rapidly for a few moments. “She told me the same thing too,” he blurted. “I mean, about me. Me about you. She told me about the tree and all of that, and then she said she knew, and I didn’t know what she meant, but I did, and then she…” He drew in a deep breath, telling himself to get a bloody grip. “John. Do you really?”

“Yes,” John answered simply. He rose from his chair and stood before Sherlock, taking his hands and drawing him up to standing.

“Something has changed,” John said quietly, looking deep into Sherlock’s eyes. “Being here. Inside of me. I’m not angry anymore. Not resentful. Not  _ scared. _ You say it’s not the honey, but…” He shrugged, taking a little step closer. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just time passing.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, thoughtful. “Could be,” he said, ever so slowly slipping his arms around John’s warm body. “Or...maybe it’s just another kind of magic.”

John nestled into Sherlock’s shoulder, and it felt so good that it almost, almost hurt. “You’re a practical man, Sherlock Holmes. A man of science. Don’t tell me you believe in magic.” 

Sherlock sighed and pulled back, looking down into John’s deep blue eyes. “Try me, John Watson,” he whispered, and slowly, carefully leaned down to press his lips to John’s own.

_ Warm, _ Sherlock thought, and  _ soft, _ and then to Sherlock’s great surprise,  _ responsive.  _ John’s lips parted beneath his and without thinking, Sherlock pressed in, and  _ oh god _ John tasted like the Winter Garden honey, delicious and sweet, rapture on the tongue but even better somehow, richer, more complex, more vibrant. He’d once wondered if he could live on honey alone, but he knew now that had been the wish of a fool: it was John that would sustain him, John that he  _ needed. _

As ever.

They pulled apart in unison, taking a moment to stare at each other in wonder, before Sherlock pulled John’s head against his chest and rested his cheek on John’s soft silver hair. They both looked out into the backyard. The garden seemed to be shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight, the flowers vibrant, the birds singing, the bees humming and it was all magic, of course, it was a bloody  _ miracle, _ and Sherlock wrapped his arms more tightly around John’s body, pulling him even closer, feeling joy, hope, passion, renewal...

In the winter of his life, he'd _finally_ discovered spring. His scar ached with the thought, and with the love he felt for the man he was holding: a good pain, the best pain.

John slipped his hands down Sherlock’s back and into his trouser seat pockets. “Thank you for this place,” he whispered.

Sherlock stared down at the top of his head and said the only thing he could think of. “It was Janine.”

John looked up at him, really looked at him, with eyes soft and fond, and Sherlock found he was suddenly quite unable to breathe. “No,” John said, shaking his head. “It wasn’t.”

Sherlock, overcome, kissed his forehead. “Then you’re welcome. Quite literally, in fact. You are always and forever welcome.”

John laughed, and they stood like that for a long time, as the starlings chattered and the bees flew home, watching the sky change colours until the sun finally slipped below the horizon. “I read something,” John murmured, as the last pink of the sunset faded away. “Last week. About the Sussex Carol. You know the one?”

“Hmm. Ralph Vaughan Williams. He stole it though, it was an old folk song. He just arranged a version of it for publication.”

“Of course you’d know that. Anyway, the article mentioned in passing that it’s an old Sussex folk tale that bees sing in their hives at midnight on Christmas Eve, to celebrate the birth of the Christ child.”

Sherlock frowned. “I can’t believe I’ve never heard that before.”

“Yes, well. Good to know I can still surprise you.”

“Your hands are currently resting on my backside, John. You always surprise me.” Sherlock brushed another kiss into John’s hair. “But it is Christmas, isn’t it. I’m sorry. I didn’t get you a present. I just didn’t know what to do.”

“Well, I know how to fix that.” John stirred, placing his own brief kiss on Sherlock’s jumper, in the space directly over his heart. “Make me some tea, love,” he said quietly.

Sherlock took a deep breath and tightened his arms around the man he’d always loved. “All right. I will.”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's true about the Sussex Carol and Ralph Vaughan Williams. The song is really quite lovely, by the way. Google it and check it out. The bee tradition is true, too, though it's hard to find more than a mention of it. That folk tale, by the way, was the tiny little seed that grew into this story. 
> 
> Thank you all again for your patience with the delay in posting. I always meant to end this up on New Year's Eve, so I'm at least marginally on schedule. 
> 
> Hope to see you around these parts tomorrow. <3


	13. New Year's Sonata

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the epilogue. Thank you all for reading this. It's been a pleasure to write.
> 
> Again, thanks and love to Holly. Happy New Year, dear one. I hope you've enjoyed this story.
> 
> \---

New Year’s Eve had dawned clear and bright, but Sherlock hadn't been outside or even near enough to a window to appreciate it. Instead, as the sun rose, he’d found himself spread out beneath the man he loved, lips kiss-swollen and body on fire, staring up into blue eyes that glowed brighter than the winter sky. John had touched, and Sherlock had moaned, and they had moved together as if they had all the time in the world.

A wholly admirable and completely appropriate way to start one’s morning, Sherlock reflected now as he jogged down the stairs. As this was meant to be the day of resolutions, Sherlock hereby happily resolved to start every day in such a fashion. He had no doubt that John, once he awoke from his well-earned nap, would wholeheartedly endorse this effort.

While the kettle heated, Sherlock checked his messages.

_ Godfather Dearest, _

_ Headed back to London tomorrow for a few days with Mrs H before it’s back to Edinburgh and the bloody rain. I was very glad to hear that you and Dad have gotten your heads out of your arses. I was NOT glad to hear it from Mrs H. It’s called a text message, Sherlock, for fuck’s sake. _

_ I was thinking I might try to head back your way at the end of next term. Something about that place agreed with me. Probably just the fresh air...and maybe, just maybe, the company.  _

_ Attaching some photos from our trip so far. Do NOT attempt to deduce my friends. I mean it.  _

_ Happy New Year! _

_ Much love, _

_ Rosie _

_ PS I was wondering. Have you and Dad considered getting a dog? Dad would love a dog. XO _

Oh, would he, Sherlock thought, making a mental note for Valentine’s Day. He zoomed in on the photos and smirked. Two crushes on Rosie, one reciprocal. 

\---

_ Sherlock, love: _

_ I hope you’re still planning to come home for your birthday next week. Rosie should be here. I’ll make you that chocolate cake you like, and we can have a bit of a party.  _

_ I’m attaching an article from a local blog. It was silly, but they wanted to interview me about my exercise classes and video channel and whatnot. Flattering, to say the least. I especially like the photo of me on the hood of my old (let’s say classic!) car. I noticed Miguel had it posted at his desk the last time I went upstairs, the cheeky lad. _

_ Send me some times that would work for you next week, so I can make sure I’m free. Rosie and I have a spa day planned. Also, the instructor at the studio is taking some time off and they’ve asked me to fill in teaching advanced Zumba.  _

_ Oh, and when you come, bring some honey. Give John my love. _

_ XO Mrs H _

Sherlock made a mental note to find out once and for all what Zumba was. And good heavens, Mrs Hudson, what were you wearing? Or not wearing?

\---

_ Mr Holmes, _

_ Thank you ever so much for the delicious honey. I’m afraid that between me and the staff, the jar was quite empty by the end of the day.  _

_ Your offer was most generous, sir, and I’d be delighted to put your honey to use in some of my recipes. In fact, I already have some ideas in mind. Are you sure you don’t mind supplying me for free? I promise that you will never want for baguettes or strudel again. _

_ Please come visit at your earliest convenience so that we may discuss terms. All best wishes for the new year. _

_ Warmest regards,  _

_ Margaret Kensington  
_ _ Sussex Sunrise Bakery _

Sherlock smiled.  It was only one small bakery, but at least their own village would see the benefits of the honey. John had seemed quite touched when Sherlock had mentioned it. In fact, that evening he’d been, in fact, quite, um, demonstrative of his appreciation for the gesture.

Sherlock blushed at the memory. Thank goodness the windows had been closed, and that the walls of the cottage were thick.

\---

_ Sherlock: _

_ Darling, I’m so delighted to hear about you and John. It’s about bloody time, I’d say. I always wondered, you know, always, but circumstances on your side, and on his… _

_ God, life is messy. I’m glad you’re finally figuring it all out. _

_ The cottage isn’t just bees and honey, not just flowers in December. It’s a place to rest, a place you can get some perspective. I never once left that house without feeling that the house was a bit sad about it, and I never walked back in the door without feeling a sense of welcome. And I swear to god, the garden seemed even brighter after I fell in love. _

_ Stop rolling your eyes at me, you great bastard. _

_ Kev and I would love to take you up on your offer to visit. Next summer, maybe?  _

_ XO -J _

Sherlock did roll his eyes, but then he glanced out the back window.

...maybe the garden did seem brighter.

But no way was he telling Janine that.

\---

Sherlock was looking in the cabinet for biscuits when the monitor gave the little beep that meant a call was coming through. He looked at the name and felt his stomach drop to his feet.

He touched the screen, and it blinked once before the image slipped into focus. 

“Anthea,” he said, his voice catching.

She held up a hand. “No. Not yet.” She hesitated. “But it won’t be long now. Weeks, at most. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Should I come?”

She sighed. “I’m to say no, but...I’ll text you. Be ready.”

“I will. I’m sorry you have to deal with this.”

“Well.” She gave him a tiny smirk. “As a wise man once said, it is what it is.”

He shook his head. “You had cameras in the flat, I  _ knew  _ it.”

“I’m actually calling at his request. He wanted me to let you know that he’s changed his will.”

“Changed his will,” Sherlock echoed. 

“Yes. Nothing drastic. He just--well, wants his ashes scattered there, at your cottage. In the back garden, specifically.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s knees suddenly threatened to give way, and he collapsed onto one of the stools at the counter. Anthea’s brow creased with concern.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I think so. It’s just...well. You know.”

“It’s okay, then?” she asked tentatively. “The change. His...wishes.”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course. It’s fine.” He couldn’t help but look over the monitor and out the back window. He took a moment to really appreciate the view: the flowers, bright and vivid against the greens of the grass and the trees; the sunshine outlining every leaf, every blade of grass, every petal; the pindots of the bees at this distance, little spots of chaos in an otherwise tranquil tableau. “It’s fine,” he repeated. “It’s...perfect.”

“Good. I’ll tell him.” 

“Thank you.”

She looked away from the camera for a long minute. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “It’s going to be terrible, isn’t it.”

There was nothing to say to that but the truth. “Yes. It is.”

“He’s been my whole life.” She looked up at the monitor, wide eyed. “Not like that. I mean, we’re just--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock interrupted, shaking his head gently. “You don’t have to define it. These things escape definition anyway, until they don’t.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. “I do love him,” she whispered.

He smiled gently. “I know. And he does, too. Look, when all of this--when everything has settled down, please come visit. Here, at the cottage. We have more than enough space. You’d be welcome. You’ll  _ always  _ be welcome. You’re...family.”

She stared at him through the camera for a long moment. He waited patiently.

Finally, she took a deep breath. “I’d like that, I think.”

“That’s sorted, then.” He stood and reached for his tea. “If I don’t--hear from you soon, I’ll be in London next week. I’ll come by, whether he likes it or not. We can have tea. I’ll bring you some honey.”

She gave him a tired smile. “I don’t usually like sweet things, you know.”

He thought of all she was going through, all that lay ahead. “In this case, my dear, I must insist you make an exception.”

\---

Sherlock had never been much for holiday customs, but there was a personal tradition he always observed: every New Year’s Eve, if he could find a spot of privacy, he pulled out his violin and played the year that was ending. 

It was pure improvisation, but it told a story: every joy, every sorrow, every case, every single important moment he could summon from the past twelve months all went into the music. There was a finality to it, but there was hope in it, too. As the music rose and expanded, he’d make his peace with the year passed; as the music ended, he’d feel almost cleansed, prepared to meet the year ahead.

This year, of course, was different. He’d never had a year like it, and it was difficult to imagine he would see its like again. This year demanded commemoration. He went through the rituals that prepared his violin, and once it was ready, he lifted it to his shoulder and prepared to play.

He paused, closing his eyes to concentrate, but something was off, something was wrong. He could feel that the music was there, somewhere, but--ah, yes. That was it. He needed to be outside, among the flowers, among the _ life,  _ being a part of it, letting the energy of this wondrous place flow through his body.

He stepped through the doors and walked out to the middle of the garden. Outside, the birds sang and the bees danced, and the sunlight of winter warmed his skin and seeped into his bones. 

He took a deep breath, letting the clear air fill his lungs, and his fingertips tingled with the brisk thrill of it. Once again, he brought the violin to his shoulder; this time, he began to play.

He played for Rosie, his goddaughter, balanced on the cusp of her future. He played for the life in her, her sheer brilliance; he played her pain, the sorrow he knew she’d always carry. Aware of her mother’s legacy; carrier of her father’s courage. He played his love for her, his hope for her. He played her smile.

He played for Mary, too, brought back freshly to mind, his friend, his murderer, the wife of his one true love. A heart in conflict, mercenary and mother; a soul with depths unknown, lost far too soon. He played her firing a bullet into his heart, and holding her baby to her breast. He missed her, and he played that.

He played for Eurus, still at Sherrinford, a danger even behind glass. The loneliest person he’d ever known, possibly who had ever been. A great mind, dulled now after decades of boredom, and a child’s heart, unknowing even of love. He’d see her next week, and she’d see the change in him immediately. He played her jealousy; it made the bees restless.

He played for Mycroft, a man always caught between knowing and wanting not to know, between caring and wanting not to care. He’d never known a single minute of abandon, of true joy, having been burdened too young with too much responsibility. Now he stood against death with the courage of a lion, the same courage that had seen his country and his brother held safe. This fight, though, he would not win. Sherlock mourned him to the core of his being, and he played that mourning.

He played for Victor as he always did, every year, his childhood friend, an innocent lost, frozen in time; he played for his parents, remembered always with ambivalence, their caring both benevolent and vicious.

He played for the cottage, for the quiet, the sheer peace of it, the flowers and trees and grass and rolling hills. He played John’s first walk through the door, and Rosie sitting on the porch, and Mycroft staring out the window as a storm raged within and without. He played for Jeff, a fond soul resting in peace, his body now being absorbed into the magic around them. He played for the starlings, and he played for the butterflies, and he played, of course, for the bees.

He played for himself, tired and sad but somehow not bitter; his mind always restless, his heart bruised and wounded, but always despite himself hopeful; quick to anger and sharp of tongue, but doing his best, always bloody  _ trying, _ and for so many years so, so desperately in love...

And now, as he heard him step out onto the patio behind him, he played for John: the soldier, the doctor, his friend, and now, after so very long, his lover. His comrade in the battlefields of London, the bravest heart, the sharpest eye; a crack shot and a quick wit, stubborn just for the sake of it. The man who had walked beside him through hell and back, keeping safely distant but never running away. He’d carried Sherlock’s heart forever without knowing; now he’d offered Sherlock his own heart in exchange.

John loved Sherlock, and Sherlock loved John, and that, it seemed, was where this year would end. The last notes drifted off into the twilight air, and for a moment, the world held its breath.

“That was beautiful,” John said softly, holding out his hand. “Come on inside, now, love. It’s getting cold.”

Sherlock lowered his bow. “All right,” he answered, smiling, and turned to go in, taking John’s hand as he passed.

Behind them, content in their hives, the bees hummed.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all your kind comments, kudos, and notes. And as always, thanks and love to 221bJen and Kedgeree, who keep me right. 
> 
> Take some honey in your tea, and always be on the lookout for magic. Happy New Year, all.

**Author's Note:**

> Perpetual cuddles and liberally poured glasses of wine for my betas, 221bJen and Kedgeree11. I've been working on this forever, and they've been nothing but encouraging and supportive. 
> 
> CONTENT NOTES: There is some discussion of terminal illness and end of life concerns. (It's not Mrs Hudson. I've decided she will live forever.) It's not at all graphic, but it is sad. Sorry. All of the humans alive at the beginning of this story are alive at the end. There's also some discussion of tense family dynamics. No bees were harmed in the making of this fic.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for The Winter Garden](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16638200) by [bluebellofbakerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellofbakerstreet/pseuds/bluebellofbakerstreet)




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